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EGMONT: 



RAGED Y IN FIVE ACT 



TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN 



GOETHE. 



BY F. BOOTT. 



SEVER, FRANCIS, & CO., 
18 7 1. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



Margaret of Parma, daughter of Charles V.: Kegent « 

Netherlands. 
Count Egmont, Prince of Gaure. 
William of Orange. 
Duke of Alva. 
Ferdinand, his natural son. 
Machiavel, in the service of the Kegent .* 
Richard, Egmont's private secretary. 

Sllva * 1 in the service of Alva. 
Gomez. ) 

Clara, beloved of Egmont. 
Her mother. 
Brackenburg, 
Soest, a shopkeeper, 

Jetter, a tailor. )■ Citizens of Brussels. 

A carpenter, 
A soapboiler. 

Buyck, a soldier under Egmont. 
Ruysum, an invalid soldier, deaf. 
Van sen, a clerk. 

People— attendants — guards, &c. 



77*< seem is at Brussels. 



ACT FIRST. 



SCENE FIRST. 
Crossbow Shooting. 
Soldiers and Citizens ivith Crossbows. 

Jetter steps forward and draws his crossbow. 

Soest. 

Come, shoot away, and let's finish! You'll 
not beat me. You never shot three black rings 
in your life. So, this year, I 'm master. 

Jetter. 

Master and king to boot. Who envies you ? 
You '11 have to pay double scot, that 's all. It 's 
but fair you should pay for your skill. 

Buyck. 

Come, Jetter, I '11 buy your shot of you, divide 
the winnings, and treat the company. I've been 
long a debtor for your hospitality here. If I miss, 
then it 's as if you had shot. 

Soest. 

I ought to have a word in the bargain, for, in 
truth, I lose by it. But no matter— shoot away, 
Buyck. 



( 6 ) 



Buyck ( shoots.) 
Now, my man, your humble servant ! One ! 
two ! three ! four ! 

Soest. 
Four rings ! It 's so. 

All. 

Long live the king ! Huzza ! 

Buyck. 

Thanks, thanks ! Master were too much for 
for me. Thank you for the honor. 

Jetter. 

You 've none to thank but yourself. 
Ruysum (deaf.) 

Let me tell you 

Soest. 
What now, old fellow ? 

Ruysum. 

Let me tell you — He shoots like his master ; 
he shoots like Egmont. 

Buyck. 

No, I 'm but a poor fellow next to him. There 's 
no one living hits the mark as he does. Not now 
and then only, when he 's in good luck or good 
spirits — No! when he shoots, it's always clear 
black. I 've learnt of him, though. He were, 
indeed, a sorry fellow that served under him and 

learnt nothing. But don't let me forget, my 

masters : a king must feed his people. Ho ! wine 
here, at the king's expense ! 

Jetter. 

It 's a rule amongst us that each one 



( 7 ) 



BlJYCK. 

I'm a stranger, and king, and obey neither 
your laws nor customs. 

Jetter. 

Thou art worse than the Spaniards. They have 
been obliged to leave us those, so far. 

Ruysum. 
What does he say ? 

Soest (loud to Ruysum.) 
He wants to treat us, and won't let us contrib- 
ute according to custom, the king only paying 
double. 

RUYSUM. 

Nay, let him, and think not ill of him. That 's 
his master's way, too, to be generous, and to 
squander his money right and left, wherever it 
can do any good. 

(They bring in ivine.) 
All. 

The health of his Majesty ! Huzza ! 

Jetter (to Buyck.) 
That means your Majesty. 

Buyck. 

My best thanks, if you mean me. 

Soest. 

Certainly. It 's hard for a Netherlander to 
drink the health of his Spanish Majesty from his 
heart. 

RUYSUM. 

Who? 

Soest (aloud to Ruysum.) 
Philip the Second, king of Spain. 



( 8 ) 



RuYSUM. 

Our most gracious king and master ! God 
grant him long life. 

Soest. 

Did you not like his father, Charles the Fifth, 
better ? 

RlTYSUM. 

God bless him ! He was a king indeed ! His 
hand was over the whole earth ; and he was all in 
all to us. If he met you in the street, he 5 d greet 
you, as one neighbor does another ; and, if one 
was abashed, he knew so well, in his pleasant 

way Yes,yes, you understand. He rode 

out or walked out just when he pleased, and with 
hardly any followers. And how we all wept when 
he gave up the government here to his son ! I 
say — you understand — he 's a different sort of 
man ; he's more majestic. 

Jetter. 

When he was here, he never showed himself 
but in full dress and royal state. They say he 
speaks but little. 

Soest. 

He ? s no king for us Netherlanders. Our 
princes must be gay and light-hearted like our- 
selves — must live and let live. We won't be 
despised or oppressed, though we are good-natured 
fools. 

Jetter. 

T believe the king is a good king enough, if he 
only had better counsellors. 



( 9 ) 



SoEST. 

No, no ! He has no sympathy with us, his 
heart is not inclined to the people, he does not 
love us — how then can we love him ? Why do 
all love Count Egmont so dearly ? Why are w 7 e 
all ready to bear him on our hands ? Because any 
one can see that he wishes us well ; because 
gayety, frankness, and good-humor, speak in his 
eyes ; because he has nothing that he would not 
share with the needy, and with him, too, who is 
in no want of it. Long live Count Egmont ! 
Buyck, it 's for you to give the first toast. Give 
your master's health. 

Buyck. 

With all my heart — here 's to Count Egmont ! 

RUYSUM. 

The conqueror at St. Quentin ! 

Buyck. 

The hero of Gravelines ! 

All. 

Huzza ! 

RUYSUM. 

St. Quentin was my last battle. I was well- 
nigh exhausted — could hardly drag along my 
heavy firelock. I managed, however, to singe 
one French skin more, and then, by way of fare- 
well, got one more shot that grazed my right leg 
here. 

Buyck. 

Gravelines ! Ha, my boys, there was warm 
work there ! We had the victory all to ourselves.. 
Did n't those foreign dogs burn and lay waste all 
2 



( io ) 



Flanders ? But we were too much for them, that 
time. The old iron-fisted fellows stood it a long 
time, but we pushed on, and hacked, and hewed, 
till they were forced to make wry faces and break 
their lines. Egmont's horse was shot under him, 
and at it we went, on the broad sea sand, man to 
man, horse to horse, and troop against troop, for 
I don't know how long. All of a sudden, as if 
from heaven, bang ! bang ! went the cannon at the 
mouth of the river, right into the Frenchmen ! 
They w 7 ere English from about Dunkirk, under 
Admiral Malin. They did not help us much, to 
be sure — they could only bring up their smallest 
vessels, and those not near enough — they shot 
into us, too. But no matter, it did some good — 
it broke the enemy, and raised our spirits. Away 
we went, rick ! rack ! topsy-turvy ! Every soul 
of them was killed or driven into the sea ! It 
was all over with the fellows, the moment they 
tasted the salt water. We Hollanders pushed in 
after them, and, thanks to our amphibious nature, 
were as much at home in the water as frogs, and 
hewed away at the enemy, and shot them down 
like so many ducks. What few broke through 
us, the peasant women killed in their flight, with 
mattocks and dung-forks. So his Gallic Majesty 
was obliged to hold out his paw, and make peace. 
And for that peace you are indebted to us and the 
great Egmont. 

All. 

Three cheers for Egmont ! Huzza ! huzza ! 

huzza ! 



( 11 ) 



Jetter. 

Would they had made him Regent in the place 
of Margaret of Parma ! 

Soest. 

Nay, nay ; fair play. I'll not hear Margaret 
abused. It 's my turn now. Long live our gra- 
cious mistress ! 

All. 

Long live the Regent ! 

Soest. 

Of a truth there are excellent women in the 
family. 

Jetter. 

She 's wise and moderate in all she does ; if 
she only would not be so formal, and stick so to 
the priests. She 's in part to blame, too, for our 
having fourteen new bishoprics in the country. 
And why, forsooth? Why, to put strangers into 
the good places, for which abbots used to be cho- 
sen out of the chapters — and they want to make 
us believe it 's all for the good of religion ! A 
pretty story ! Three bishops were quite enough : 
things went on fairly and properly then. But 
now° every one feels called on to do something, 
and that makes disturbance and ill-will every mo- 
ment. And the more you trouble the matter, the 
muddier it becomes. 

(They drink.) 
Soest. 

But this was the will of the king : she has 
nothing to do with it, one way or another. 



( 12 ) 



Jetter. 

And then we are not allowed to sing the new 
psalms. The words are really very finely rhymed, 
and set to the best of tunes. And yet we must n't 
sing them, but rantipole songs, as much as we 
please. And why, pray ? — because they are full 
of heresies, they say, and God knows what ! I 've 
sung some of them, though. They are something 
new, but I see no harm in them. 

Buyck. 

Catch me asking any body's leave ! In our 
province we sing what we like. That 's because 
Count Egmont is our Stadtholder, and he does 
not meddle in such matters. In Ghent, Ypres, 
and through all Flanders, any body sings them 
that pleases. (Loud to Ruysum) There 's noth- 
ing more harmless than a good psalm — is there, 
father ? 

RUYSUM. 

Ay, indeed ! A service to God is it, and most 

edifying. 

Jetter. 

They say, though, that these are not the right 
kind — not their kind. It's dangerous, too, to 
sing them, and we prefer to let them alone. The 
officers of the Inquisition go spying about, and 
many an honest man already, has been unlucky 
enough to fall into their hands. Slavery of 
thought was yet wanting. If I can't do what I 
wish to, I might, at least, be allowed to think and 
sing as I please. 



( 13 ) 



SOEST. 

The Inquisition won ? t go down here. We are 
not made, like the Spaniards, to have our con- 
sciences tyrannized over. The nobles must take 
means betimes to clip its wings. 

Jetter. 

It 's too bad 1 Whenever it pleases their wor- 
ships to break into my house, and I sit there at 
my work, humming a French psalm, and thinking 
nothing about it, whether good or evil, (I hum it 
because it happens to be in my throat,) I ? m at 
once declared a traitor, and thrust into jail ! Or, 
perhaps, I go into the country, and stand among 
a crowd of people who are listening to a new 
preacher, one of those lately come out of Ger- 
many — without more ado, I 'm called a rebel, 
and run the risk of losing my head ! Have you 
ever heard any of these preachers ? 

Soest. 

Ay, that I have, the fine fellows ! I heard one 
lately preach in a field to thousands and thous- 
ands of people. 'T was a different affair from our 
preachers, when they bang away in the pulpit, and 
cram the people with scraps of Latin. He spoke 
straight from his heart — told us how we had been 
led round by the nose, and kept in ignorance, and 
how we might get more instruction. And he 
proved it ail out of the Bible, too. 

Jetter. 

There may be something in that. I always 
said so to myself, and I 've pondered a good deal 
upon the matter. It has been running in my head 
for a long time. 



( 14 ) 



BlJYCK. 

All the people are running after these men. 

SOEST. 

I warrant you, they ? 11 go wherever they can 
hear any thing good and new. 

Jetter. 

And what is it, after all ? Surely every one 
ought to be allowed to preach after his own 
fashion. 

BUYCK. 

Come, come, my masters ! you talk so much 
that you forget your wine and the Prince of Or- 
ange. 

Jetter. 

We must not forget him. He J s a true wall of 
defence. When one thinks of him, it seems as if 
a man had only to put himself behind him, and 
the devil himself could n't get at him. Here ? s to 
William of Orange ! Huzza ! 

All. 

Huzza ! huzza ! 

Soest. 

Now, old man, give us your toast. 

Ruysum. 

Here 's to all soldiers, old and young ! Long 
live the war ! 

BUYCK. 

Bravo, old fellow ! Here 's to all soldiers ! 
Long live the war ! 

Jetter. 

War ! war ! Do you know what you say? It 



( 15 ) 

comes easily enough out of your mouth, as is 
natural : but I can't tell you what a vexatious 
business it is to us. To have the drum in one s 
ears the whole year round ; to hear of nothing but 
how one troop was drawn up here, and another 
there ; how they came over a hill, and halted near 
a mill'; how many were killed here, and how 
many there ; how they rushed on, and one gained 
and the other lost, without being able to tell, in 
one's born days, who won and who lost any thing ; 
how a town is taken, the citizens murdered, and 
how it fares with the poor women and m nocen f 
children — this is distress and misery, indeed ! 
One can't help saying, every moment : Here they 
come ! it 's our turn next. 

Soest. 

For that reason every citizen should be con- 
stantly exercised in arms, 

Jetter. 

Yes, that must he, who has wife and children. 
And yet I had rather hear of soldiers than see 
them. 

BUYCK. 

I 've a right to be offended at that. 

Jetter. 

I do n't speak of you, countryman. When vve 
we were rid of the Spanish garrison, we could 
take breath again. 

Soest. 

I '11 warrant they weighed heaviest on you. 

Jetter. 
You need n't trouble yourself. 



( 16 ) 

SoEST. 

They found close quarters with you. 
Jetter. 

Hold thy tongue ! 

Soest. 

They drove him out of his kitchen, cellar, and 
chamber — out of his bed, too. 

(They laugh.) 

Jetter. 
Thou 'rt a blockhead ! 

BUYCK. 

Peace, my masters ! What! must the soldier 
cry peace ! Come, if you won 't take any thing 
from us, give us a toast of your own — give us a 
citizen's toast. 

Jetter. 

That will we, right willingly — Peace and safety ! 

Soest. 
Liberty and order ! 

BlJYCK. 

Bravo ! We '11 agree to that. 

All. 

Peace and safety ! Liberty and order ! 



( " ) 



SCENE SECOND. 

Palace of the Regent. 

Enter Margaret of Parma, in a hunting- 
dress — Courtiers — Pages — Servants. 

Regent. 

Put off the hunt ; I shall not ride to-day*. Tell 
Machiavel to come to me. 

( Exeunt all but the Regent.) 
The thought of these fearful occurrences leaves 
me no peace ! Nothing will distract me, nothing 
divert my mind from their contemplation. I know 
the king will say that these are the consequences 
of my kindness and forbearance ; and yet my con- 
science tells me that I have done what was wisest 
and best. Should I have kindled and spread the 
flames at an earlier period by the storm of my an- 
ger ? — I had hoped to surround and smother 
them. Yes, what I repeat to myself, and what I 
well know is true, justifies me to my own con- 
science : but how will my brother receive it ? For 
it cannot be denied that the insolence of the for- 
eign preachers has increased daily ; that they have 
made a laughing-stock of our sanctuaries, have 
excited the dull minds of the rabble, and conjured 
up a turbulent spirit among them. Impure spirits 
have mingled with the insurgents, and horrible 
deeds have been done, which I shudder to think 
3 



( 18 ) 



on. Of each one of these I must inform the 
court, and that at once, lest rumor be beforehand 
with me, and the king suspect that there are oth- 
ers which we wish to conceal from him. I see no 
means, mild or severe, to check the evil. O what 
are we, the great, in the stream of humanity ? 
We think to control it, and it drives us whither- 
soever it will. 

(Enter Machiavel.) 
Regent. 
Are the letters to the king written ? 

Machiavel. 
In an hour they will be ready for your signa- 
ture. 

Regent. 

Have you made the report full enough ? 

Machiavel. 
Full and circumstantial, as the king desires. I 
relate fiow the madness of the Imagebreakers first 
shows itself in the neighborhood of St. Omer ; 
how a raging multitude, provided with clubs, axes, 
hammers, ladders, ropes, accompanied by a few 
armed men, first fall upon the churches and con- 
vents, drive away the devout, break open the 
barred doors, throw every thing into confusion, 
tear down the altars, break in pieces the statues 
of the saints, destroy the paintings, seize upon all 
things consecrated and holy, and crush and tram- 
ple them to pieces ; how the mob increases in its 
progress, and the inhabitants of Ypres open their 
gates to them ; how, with infidel zeal, they lay 



( 19 ) 



waste the cathedral, and burn the library of the 
bishop ; how an immense multitude, seized with the 
like frenzy, spreads itself over Menin, Comines, 
and Lille ; finds nowhere opposition ; and how this 
monstrous conspiracy is showing itself, and effec- 
ting its purposes, at once, in almost every part of 
Flanders. 

Regent. 

Alas ! your recital gives new force to my grief! 
The fear, too, is added, that the evil will grow 
greater and greater. Give me your opinion, 
Machiavel. 

Machiavel. 
Pardon me, your Highness — my ideas are but 
odd fancies ; and though you have ever been con- 
tent with my services, yet have you seldom been 
willing to follow my counsel. You have often 
said in jest : u You see too far, Machiavel — you 
should write histories — he who would act must 
look to the immediate consequences." And yet, 
have I not related this history to you beforehand ? 
Have I not foreseen every thing ? 

Regent. 

I, too, foresee much, without being able to 
change it. 

Machiavel. 
One word is as good as a thousand. Do not 
persecute the new faith. Let it be acknowledged, 
separate its followers from the true believers, give 
them churches, subject them to the restraint of 
municipal laws ; and in this way you will quiet 
the rebels at once. All other means are vain — 
you but depopulate the country. 



( 20 ) 



Regent. 

Have you forgotten with what aversion my 
brother rejected the bare question whether the new 
faith should be tolerated ? Do you not know how 
he enjoins upon me, in every letter, the support of 
the true faith in the most zealous manner ? that he 
will not hear of quiet and union being restored at 
the expense of religion? Does he not even em- 
ploy spies in the provinces, unknown to us, in 
order to learn who is inclined to the new opin- 
ions ? Has he not, to our surprise, named to us 
certain persons, who, in our neighborhood, were 
secretly guilty of heresy ? Does he not command 
strictness and severity ? And shall I be mild, and 
recommend to him connivance and toleration ? 
Should I not thus lose all trust and confidence 
with him ? 

Machiavel. 
I am aware of this. The king's commands are 
explicit ; he leaves you in no doubt of his pur- 
poses. You are to restore quiet and peace by 
means which only the more imbitter men's minds, 
and which must, unavoidably, excite war in every 
quarter. Consider well what you do. The 
wealthiest merchants are infected — the nobles, 
the people, the soldiers. Why persist in one's 
opinions, when every thing about is changing? 
Would that some good genius would suggest to 
Philip that it better becomes a king to rule sub- 
jects possessing two different creeds, than to ex- 
terminate them, one by the other ! 



( 21 ) 



Regent. 

Never let me hear such words again. I know 
well that state policy can seldom keep faith — 
that it shuts out candor, benevolence, toleration, 
from our hearts. In worldly affairs, this is, alas, 
too true: but shall we trifle with God as we do 
with one another ? Shall we be indifferent to our 
established religion, for which so many have sacri- 
ficed their lives ? Shall we abandon it for these 
far-fetched, unsettled, self-contradictory innova- 
tions ? 

Machiavel. 
Think not the worse of me for my suggestion. 
Regent. 

I know you and your loyalty ; and know, too, 
that one may be an honorable and sagacious man, 
though he have mistaken the nearest and best path 
to his soul's salvation. There are other men, also, 
Machiavel, whom I esteem, and yet must blame. 

Machiavel. 
Whom do you mean ? 

Regent. 

I must confess that Egmont has awakened in 
me, to-day, a deep, heartfelt displeasure. 

Machiavel. 
How ? by what conduct ? 

Regent. 

By his accustomed indifference and levity. I 
received these appalling tidings as I was coming 
from chapel, attended by Egmont and several 
others. I did not restrain my grief ; I vented my 



( 22 ) 



complaints aloud, and cried, turning to him : " See 
what has taken place in your province ! Do you 
suffer this, Count — you, from whom the king 
promised himself so much ?" 

Machiavel. 
And what did he reply? 

Regent. 

As if it were a mere nothing, an affair of no 
consequence, he answered, that if the Nether- 
landers were only first satisfied about their consti- 
tution, the rest would follow of itself. 

Machiavel. 

He spoke, perhaps, with more truth than dis- 
cretion or propriety. How can the confidence of 
the Netherlander be gained and preserved, when 
he sees that there is more thought for his posses- 
sions than for his temporal or spiritual welfare ? 
Have the new bishops saved as many souls as 
they have swallowed fat benefices? And are 
they not mostly foreigners? As yet all the 
offices of state are held by Netherlander ; and 
do not the Spaniards show too clearly that they 
feel a great, an irresistible desire for these places ? 
Will not a people rather be governed in their own 
way, and by their own countrymen, than by stran- 
gers, who, from the moment they set foot in the 
country, strive to enrich themselves at the expense 
of the community ; who bring with them a foreign 
standard ; and whose rule is marked by neither 
friendliness nor sympathy ? 

Regent. 

You take part with our adversaries. 



( 23 ) 



Machiavel. 
With my heart certainly not ; and I could wish 
that my reason were wholly on our own side. 
Regent. 

According to you, 'twere better I should resign 
my regency. Egmont and Orange have had 
great hopes of filling my place. Then they were 
antagonists ; now they are leagued against me, and 
have become inseparable friends. 

Machiavel. 
A dangerous pair ! 

Regent. 

Shall I speak openly ? I fear Orange, and I 
fear for Egmont. Orange conceives nothing good : 
his thoughts reach far into the future ; he keeps 
his own counsel, appears to yield every thing, 
never opposes, and with the show of the deepest 
veneration, acts out, with keenest foresight, his 
own purpose. 

Machiavel. 
Just the reverse is Egmont. He walks boldly 
forward, as if the whole world were his own. 
Regent. 

Yes, he bears his head loftily. He forgets that 
the arm of royalty is suspended over him. 
Machiavel. 

The eyes of the people are directed to him, and 
their hearts hang on him. 

Regent. 

He has never studied appearances, as if no one 
had the power to call him to account. He bears 



( 24 ) 



still the name of Egmont. It pleases him to be 
called Count Egmont, apparently not to forget 
that his ancestors were in possession of Guelders. 
Why does he not call himself Prince of Gaure, 
as becomes him ? What is his object ? Would 
he make extinguished titles again valid ? 

Machiavel. 
I hold him to be a faithful servant of the king. 

Regent. 

If he wished, of what service could he be in 
the government ! instead of causing us unspeaka- 
ble vexation, without in any way benefiting him- 
self. His convivial meetings and banquets have 
done more to bind the nobles together than the 
most dangerous secret societies. With his toasts, 
his guests have imbibed a lasting intoxication, an 
unabating excitement. Time and again he has 
stirred up the minds of the people by his factious 
harangues, and the mob do nothing but stare at the 
new liveries and foolish decorations of his servants. 

Machiavel. 
I am convinced it was without design. 

Regent. 

'T is bad enough as it is. As I said before, he 
injures us, and profits not himself. He makes 
jest of what is serious, and we, not to appear be- 
hindhand, are obliged to take a jest in earnest. 
So does one thing urge on another ; and what we 
have striven to avoid has become a settled thing. 
He is more dangerous than the acknowledged 
head of a conspiracy, and I greatly err if they do 



( 25 ) 



not remember all this against him at court. I 
must confess that little time passes without his 
causing me extreme irritation. 

Machiavel. 
He appears to me to act in all things conscien- 
tiously. 

Regent. 

His conscience has an accommodating mirror. 
His manner, too, is often offensive. He looks as 
if he lived in the full conviction that he is master, 
and, merely out of complaisance, would not let 
us feel it — would not, just at present, drive us 
out of the country, but as if it would soon come 
to that. 

Machiavel. 
I beg of you, do not interpret too harshly his 
frankness, his happy disposition, which makes 
light of all important matters. You only injure 
him and yourself. 

Regent. 

I interpret nothing. I speak only of inevitable 
consequences, and I know him well. His Neth- 
erlandish nobility, and his golden fleece upon his 
breast, strengthen his confidence and his audacity. 
Both are sufficient to protect him from any sudden 
caprice of the king. Why, examine the matter 
closely. For all the misfortunes that have befallen 
Flanders, is he not alone to blame ? From the first 
he winked at the foreign preachers, was far from 
strict with them, and perhaps, in secret, was pleased 
that they gave us cause for anxiety. Leave me 
to treat with him ! This occasion shall not pass 
4 



( 26 ) 



without my relieving my heart of its burden. 
And I will not shoot my arrows in vain — no, I 
know where he is vulnerable. He, too, has his 
weak points. 

Machiavel. 
Have you called the council ? Does Orange 
come too ? 

Regent. 

I have sent to Antwerp for him. I will place 
the burden of justification on their shoulders — 
they shall either join with me, in earnest, in op- 
posing the evil, or declare themselves rebels too. 
Make haste ; let the letters be ready soon, and 
bring them to me for my signature.. Then dis- 
patch at once the trusty Vaska to Madrid, (he is 
indefatigable and faithful,) that my brother may 
learn the news first from him, and that rumor may 
not drive him to some hasty act. I will speak to 
him myself before he leaves. 

Machiavel. 

Your commands shall be quickly and punctual- 
ly obeyed. 



( 27 ) 



SCENE THIRD. 

Clara's House. 
Clara — her mother — Brackenburg. 
Clara. 

Will you hold this yarn for me, Brackenburg? 

Brackenburg. 
I pray you spare me, Clara. 

Clara. 

What is the matter now ? Why deny me this 
little friendly service ? 

Brackenburg. 
You bind me so firmly with the yarn there be- 
fore you, that I can't escape your eyes. 

Clara. 
Nonsense ! come and hold it. 

Mother. 
(Knitting in her arm-chair.) 
Sing something together, do — Brackenburg 
sings so good a second. You used to be gay, 
once, and I always had something to laugh at. 
Brackenburg. 
Yes, once indeed ! 

Clara. 
Come, let us sing. 

Brackenburg. 
Well, whatever you please. 



( 28 ) 



Clara. 

Cheer up, then, and sing with spirit. It 's a 
soldier's song — my favorite. 

(She ivinds yarn, and sings with Brackenburg.) 

The fifes are all playing ! 

All beating the drums ! 
At the head of his soldiers, 

All arm'd, my love comes. 
My heart, how 't is beating ! 

My blood 's all on fire ! 

had I a breastplate 
And soldier's attire ! — 

I 'd follow him boldly, 
Without thought of fear, 

1 'd march through the provinces, 
March every where. 

Our foes we will capture, 

And shoot whom we can — 
What joy, oh what rapture, 

To be a bold man ! 

(During the song, Brackenburg looks often at 
Clara. At length his voice fails him; tears 
come into his eyes ; he lets the skein drop, and 
goes to the window. Clara finishes the song 
alone. At a sign from her mother, she gets up, 
goes a few steps towards Brackenburg, turns back, 
as if undecided, and sits down again.) 

Mother. 

What's the matter in the street, Brackenburg? 
I hear soldiers marching. 

Brackenburg. 
It 's the Regent's life-guard 



( 29 ) 



Clara. 

At this hour ! What can that mean ? (She 
gets ujp, and goes to Brackenburg at the window. ) 
That ? s not the common guard : there are many 
more there — almost all the troops ! O Brack- 
enburg, go and find out what the matter is. It 
must be something unusual. Do go, that's a good 
Brackenburg : do me this favor. 

Brackenburg. 
I '11 go, and return in a moment. (He offers 
Clara his hand in going ; she gives him hers. 
Exit Brackenburg.) 

Mother. 

Do you send him away again so soon ? 
Clara. 

I am curious to know what is going on. And — 
nay, do not blame me ; his presence pains me. I 
never know how to behave towards him. I have 
been unjust to him, and my heart aches to see him 
feel it so deeply. But I can't help it. 

Mother. 
He 's such a true-hearted fellow ! 

Clara. 

I cannot put a stop to it. I must meet him with 
kindness. My hand often closes heedlessly, while 
his presses mine so gently, so tenderly ! I re- 
proach myself for deceiving him, for cherishing in 
his heart a vain hope. It is wrong to do so. 
God knows 1 would not deceive him. I do not 
wish him to hope, and yet I cannot drive him to 
despair ! 



( 30 ) 



Mother. 

That ? s not right. 

Clara. 

I liked him, and wish him well still, in my heart. 
I might have married him, and yet I believe I 
never loved him. 

Mother. 

You would always have been happy with him. 
Clara. 

I should have been provided for, and have led 
a quiet life. 

Mother. 
And all this is lost by your own fault. 

Clara. 

I am in a strange situation. When I reflect on 
the past, I feel that I know what has happened, 
and yet know it not. And then I have but to 
look on Egmont again, and I understand it all — 
ay, could understand far more. Oh ! what a man 
he is ! All the provinces worship him ; and ought 
I not, in his arms, to be the happiest creature in 
the world ? 

Mother. 
How will it be by and by ? 

Clara. 

Oh, I ask only if he love me — and if he love 
me ! can that be a question ? 

Mother. 

One has nothing but sorrow with one's children. 
Always anxiety and grief! And how will it all 



( 31 ) 



end ? It will not end well. You have made your- 
self wretched, and me too. 

Clara (calmly.) 
And yet you allowed it at first. 

Mother. 

Alas, I was too indulgent — I am always too 
indulgent. 

Clara. 

When Egmont rode by, and I ran to the win- 
dow, did you find fault with me ? Did you not go 
to the window yourself? When he looked up 
and saluted me with a smile and a nod, was it un- 
pleasant to you ? Did not you feel yourself hon- 
ored in your daughter ? 

Mother. 
Spare not your reproaches. 

Clara ( with emotion.) 
And then when he came oftener through the 
street, and we felt sure that he took this way on 
my account, did not you remark it with secret 
joy ? Did you call me away, when I stood at the 
window, waiting for him ? 

Mother. 

Could I imagine that it would go so far ? 
Clara (with stifled voice, and tears in her eyes.) 

And when he came one evening, wrapped in 
his mantle, and surprised us by candle-light, who 
busied herself to receive him, while I, in astonish- 
ment, remained sitting, as if bound to my chair ? 
Mother. 

And could I fear that this ill-starred love would 



( 32 ) 



overcome my prudent Clara so soon ? Now 1 
must endure to have my daughter 

Clara (bursting into tears.) 
Mother ! you take pleasure in distressing me. 

Mother (weeping.) 
Ay, weep : make me yet more wretched by 
your sorrow. Is it not misery enough to have 
my only daughter an offcast ? 

Clara (getting up.) 
Offcast ! the beloved of Egmont an offcast ! 
What princess would not envy the poor Clara her 
place next his heart ! O mother, mother, you 
were not used to speak thus. Dear mother, be 
kind to me. Let people think, let neighbors whis- 
per, what they please — this chamber, this humble 
house is a paradise, since Egmont's love has dwelt 
in it ! 

Mother. 

One can ? t help liking him, that 's true. He 's 
always so friendly — so generous and open-heart- 
ed. 

Clara. 

There is no base blood in him. Look but at 
him, mother — he is truly the great Egmont. 
And when he comes to see me, how dear, how 
kind he is ! how much he tries to conceal his rank 
and his brave deeds from me ! how anxious he is 
about me ! So only would a man, a friend, a 
lover, act ! 

Mother. 
Is he coming to-day ? 



( 33 ) 



Clara. 

Have not you seen me go often to the window ? 
Have you not noticed how I listen when there 's 
any noise at the door ? I know he 's not coming 
till night, and yet I expect him every moment 
from the time I get up in the morning. Would 
only I were a boy, and could always be with him ! 
that I could go to court with him, and every where 
else ! could bear his standard after him in battle ! 

Mother. 

Ay, thou wert ever just such a crazy creature. 
Even when a child, one moment half frantic and 
the next serious. Wilt not attire thyself a little 
better ? 

Clara. 

Perhaps, if I feel tired with waiting. Only 
think, mother, yesterday some of his people went 
by, singing songs in honor of him — at least, his 
name was in the songs ; the rest I could not under- 
stand. My heart was in my throat. I longed to 
call them back, and would, if I had not been 
ashamed. 

Mother. 

Have a care ! Your impetuous disposition will 
spoil all yet — you betray yourself openly before 
people. Not long ago, at our cousin's, when you 
saw the woodcut with the description beneath it, 
and cried out, " Count Egmont ! " my face was 
like fire. 

Clara. 

And had I not good reason to cry out ? It was 
the battle of Gravelines ; and I found above in 
5 



( 34 ) 



the picture the letter C, and then looked below 
for it in the description. It said, " Count Egmont, 
with his horse shot under him." It took me all 
by surprise. And then I could not help laughing 
at the Egmont in the cut, w r ho was as bio; as the 
tower of Gravelines hard by, and the English 
ships at the side. When I think how I used to 
imagine a battle, and what an idea I had of Count 
Egmont when I was a child, and when they told 
me stories about him and about all the Counts and 
Princes — and when I think how it is with me 
now ! — heigho ! 

(Enter Brackenburg,) 

Clara. 

Well, what 's the matter. 

Brackenburg. 
Nothing certain is known. They say that there 
has been a riot lately in Flanders, and that the 
Regent is fearful of its spreading here. The 
castle is strongly garrisoned, the citizens are throng- 
ing at the gates, and the streets are swarming with 
people. I '11 just run quickly, and see my old 
father. (In act of going.) 

Clara. 

We shall see you to-morrow. I '11 dress my- 
self a little : our cousin 's coming, and I look really 
too slovenly. Mother, come and help me a mo- 
ment. Take this book with you, Brackenburg; 
and bring me another story like it. 



( 35 ) 



Mother. 

Farewell. 

Brackenburg (offering his hand to Clara.) 
Your hand ! 

Clara ( refusing it.) 
When you come again. 

( Exuent mother and daughter.) 

Brackenburg (alone.) 
I had determined to go out again at once ; and 
now, when she takes me at my word, and lets me 
go, I could go mad ! Wretched man ! does not 
thy country's fate move thee, nor this growing tu- 
mult ? is it indifferent to thee who rule, or who 
have the right on their side, thy countrymen or 
the Spaniards ? Oh, I was not, when a school- 
boy, what I am now ! When an exercise was 
required for the practice of oratory, as " Brutus' 
Speech for Liberty,' 5 Fritz was always first there ; 
and the Rector used to say, " Well enough, if it 
were only spoken more deliberately — not so 
jumbled together." Then things went on swim- 
mingly ! Now, I am bound to the eyes of this 
girl — I cannot leave her, and she cannot love me ! 
Ah ! no — it is not possible that she has cast me 

off entirely not w 7 holly — and half is as bad. 

I '11 bear it no longer ! What if it were true, what 
a friend lately whispered in my ear, that she lets a 
man in secretly by night, after prudently sending 
me away before evening ? No ! 't is not true ! — 
? t is a lie — a base, slanderous lie ! . Clara is as 
innocent as I am miserable. She has cast me off 



( 36 ) 



— banished me from her heart and shall 1 

live on thus ? I cannot, I will not endure it ! 
My country will, ere long, be more violently shak- 
en by civil war, and I shall perish ignobly in the 
tumult. I '11 not bear it ! If a trumpet sounds, 
or a shot is fired, it goes through my very mar- 
row. Alas! it does not excite me — does not 
call me to join in the attack, to fly to the rescue, 
to expose myself to danger. Wretched, despica- 
ble situation ! Better die at once ! But lately, I 
threw myself into the water. I sank — but an- 
guished nature was stronger : I felt that I could 

swim, and, in spite of myself, was saved. 

Could I but forget the time when she loved, or 
seemed to love me ! Why has happiness pene- 
trated my inmost core ? Why have these hopes, 
while they promised a Paradise in the future, 

consumed all enjoyment in life ? And that 

first, that only kiss ! Here were we alone — she 
had always been kind and friendly to me — then 
she seemed to soften — she looked at me — my 
brain whirled round — and I felt her lips on 

mine. And — and now ? Die, wretch ! 

Why dost thou linger ? (He draws a phial from 
his pocket.) 'Tis not in vain I 5 ve stolen thee,* 
thou healing poison ! This fear, this dizziness, 
this death-sweat, shalt thou at once destroy, and 
for ever ! 



* In the original-: " stolen thee frommy brother's medicine chest." — 7V. 



ACT SECOND. 



SCENE FIRST. 
Public Place in Brussels. 
Jetter and a Carpenter meeting. 

Carpenter. 

Did n't I say so beforehand ? A week ago, at 
the guild meeting, I said there would be more se- 
vere work. 

Jetter. 

Is it true, then, that they have plundered the 
churches in Flanders ? 

Carpenter. 

They have razed to the ground churches and 
chapels, and have left nothing standing but the 
four bare walls. They are nothing but rabble — 
and that ? s what injures our good cause. We 
ought, before this, to have laid our claims before 
the Regent, in the proper way, and with firmness 
— and have insisted on them. Now, if we talk 
or meet together, they '11 say we are joining the 
rebels. 



( 38 ) 



Jetter. 

Ay, so thinks every one at first. What busi- 
ness hast thou with thy nose before the rest ? re- 
member thy neck joins close on it. 

Carpenter. 
I 'm uneasy when riots begin among the mob — 
among people who have nothing to lose. They 
use this as a pretext to compel us to have recourse 
to the same means, and bring the country into 
mischief. 

Enter Soest. 
Good day, my masters ! What 's the news ? 
Is it true that the Image-breakers are coming 
straight hither ? 

Carpenter. 
They shall disturb nothing here. 

Soest. 

A soldier came into my shop to buy tobacco, 
and I asked him all about it. The Regent, though 
she be a brave and wise lady, has lost her pres- 
ence of mind this time. Things must be very 
bad when she takes refuge, so at once, behind her 
guard. The castle is occupied at every point. 
They say, even, that she 5 s going to fly from the 
city. 

Carpenter. 
That shall she not ! Her presence protects us ; 
and we shall be more protection to her than all 
her mustachioed fellows. And if she '11 uphold 
our rights and privileges, we '11 bear her aloft on 
our hands^ 



( 39 ) 



Enter a Soapboiler. 
Dirty, good-for-nothing business this ! They 
are beginning to be turbulent, and things are get- 
ting crooked. Have a care that you keep quiet, 
or they '11 take you too for rioters. 

Soest. 

Here come the seven wise men of Greece. 

Soapboiler. 
I know there are many who hold secretly with 
the Calvinists, slander the bishops, and do n't fear 
the king. But a true subject, a sincere Catho- 
lic ! 

( Others join them by degrees , and listen.) 

Enter Vansen. 
God greet you, my masters ! What news ? 

Carpenter. 
Don't have any thing to do with him — he 's a 
bad fellow. 

Jetter. 
Is n't he clerk at Doctor Witts' ? 

Carpenter. 
O, he has had many masters. First he was 
clerk, and, as one master after another turned him 
off, for his knavish tricks, he dabbles now in the 
notary business. He's a hot-headed fellow. 

(More people come in.) 
Vansen. 

Here you all are, with your heads together 
'T were better to speak out. 

Soest. 

I think so too. 



( 40 ) 



Vansen. 

If some one or other had the heart, and some 
one or other the head too, we might burst the 
Spanish chains at once. 

Soest. 

Fellow-citizens, you must not speak thus. We 
have taken the oath to the king. 

Vansen. 
And the king to us — mark that. 

Jetter. 

That ? s reasonable. Let us have your opinion. 

Some Citizens. 
Yes, hear him ; he understands the matter. 
He 's a sharp one. 

Vansen. 

I lived with an old master, who had a quantity 
of parchments and title-deeds of antiquated insti- 
tutions, contracts, and documents of all sorts ; he 
set a great deal, too, by the rarest books. One 
of them contained our whole constitution — how, 
at first, single princes ruled us Netherlanders, and 
always according to transmitted laws, customs, and 
privileges — how our ancestors had all reverence 
for their prince, so long as he ruled as he should 
do — and how they were at once on their guard, 
the moment he was for going beyond his tether. 
The States kept a sharp eye upon him : for every 
province, no matter how small, had its chambers 
and representative assembly. 



( 41 ) 



Carpenter. 
Hold thy tongue ! We knew this long ago. 
Every good citizen is taught as much of the con- 
stitution as is good for him. 

Jetter. 

Let him speak ; one always learns something 
new. 

Soest. 

He 's quite right. 

Several Citizens. 
Go on ! go on ! One does n't hear such as this 
every day. 

Vansen. 

So is it with you, citizens. You live only for 
the day ; and the same spirit that makes you fol- 
low the trade appointed for you by your parents, 
lets the government domineer over you just as it 
pleases. You ask not after the origin, or the his- 
tory, or the right of a ruler : and it 's owing to 
this neglect that the Spaniards have drawn the net 
over your ears. 

Soest. 

Who thinks about that, if one only have one's 
daily bread ? 

Jetter. 

Curse it ! why did no one get up in time, and 
tell us this ? 

Vansen. 

J tell it you now. The king of Spain, who by 
good luck possesses these united provinces, can- 
not govern them otherwise than the petty princes 
6 



( 42 ) 



who possessed them separately. Do you under- 
stand that ? 

Jetter. 

Explain it to us. 

Vansen. 

It's as clear as the sun. Must not you be 
judged according to your provincial laws? — And 
whence came that ? 

A Citizen. 

Ay, forsooth ! 

Vansen. 

Has not the citizen of Brussels a different law 
from the Antwerper, and the Antwerper from him 
of Ghent ? How came that ? 

Another Citizen. 
Egad ! that 's true. 

Vansen. 

But, if yon let things run on so, they '11 soon 
tell you a different story. Fy, fy ! What Charles 
the Bold, Frederick the Warrior, and Charles the 
Fifth, could not effect, Philip the Second does 
now by a woman ! 

Soest. 

Ay, ay ! The old princes have tried it too be- 
fore this. 

Vansen. 

Yes, indeed ! Our ancestors were on the look- 
out. When they had a grudge against a lord, they 
seized, perhaps, his son and heir, kept him by 
them, and surrendered him only on the best con- 
ditions. Our fathers were men. They knew 



( 43 ) 



what was good for them — they knew how to take 
hold of a thing and settle it. And hence is it that 
our privileges are so clear, our liberties so well 
secured. 

Soapboiler. 
What are you saying about liberties ? 
All. 

Our liberties and privileges ! Tell us something 
about our privileges ! 

Vansen. 

We Brabanters, particularly — though all the 
provinces have their advantages — we are the best 
provided for. I 've read it all. 

Soest. 

Go on ! 

Jetter. 

Yes. let 's hear. 

A Citizen. 

Pray, do ! 

Vansen. 

First, it is written : The Duke of Brabant shall 
be a good and faithful master to us. 

Soest. 

Good I does it say good ? 

Jetter. 

And faithful, too ? 

Vansen. 

As I tell you. He is bound to us, as we are to 
him. Secondly : He shall not use force or dis- 
play caprice toward us, or allow it in others, un- 
der any circumstances whatever. 



( 44 ) 
Jetter. 

Bravo ! bravo ! not use any force ! 
Soest. 

No, nor show any caprice either ! 

Another Citizen. 

And not to allow it in others ! that J s the chief 
point. To allow no one to use force, under any 
circumstances. 

Vansen. 
In just those words. 

Jetter. 

Get us the book. 

A Citizen. 
Yes, we must have it. 

Others. 
The book ! the book ! 

Another Citizen. 
We '11 to the Regent with the book. 

Another. 
You shall be spokesman, Doctor. 

Soapboiler. 

the fools !. 

All. 

Tell us something more out of the book. 
Soapboiler. 

1 ? 1I knock his teeth down his throat if he speak 
another word. 

All. 

We '11 see who dares meddle with him. Tell 
us something about our privileges — have we any 
more privileges ? 



( 45 ) 



Vansen. 

Ay, many : and good and salutary ones, too. 
It says, besides : The lord shall not benefit or in- 
crease the clergy, without consent of the nobles 
and the States. Mark that. And, that he shall 
not change the government of the country. 

Soest. 

Is that so ? 

Vansen. 

I '11 show it you in writing, two or three centu- 
ries old. 

A Citizen. 
And we endure the new bishops ? The nobles 
must protect us : we '11 make a quarrel about it. 
Others. 

And we let ourselves be frightened by the In 
quisition ! 

Vansen. 
That 's your own fault. 

All. 

We have Egmont still, and Orange. They '11 
do the best for us. 

Vansen. 

Your brothers in Flanders have begun the good 
work. 

Soapboiler. 

Dog ! (Strikes him.) 

( Others take his part, and cry to Soaphoiler,) 
Art thou, too, a Spaniard ? 

Another. 
What ! this honorable man ? 



( 4G ) 

Another. 
Fy ! the learned man ! 

(They attack the Soapboiler.) 
Carpenter. 
In heaven's name, peace ! 

(Others mingle in the fight.) 
Fellow-citizens! what means this ? 
(Boys ivhistle, throw stones, and set on dogs — 
citizens stand gaping ; some walk quietly to and 
fro; Gthers play all sorts of tricks, shout and 
huzza.) 

Other Citizens. 
Liberty and privilege ! Privilege and liberty ! 

(Enter Egmont, with suite.) 
Egmont. 

Peace ! peace, good people ! What is the mat- 
ter ? Peace ! Separate yourselves ! 

Carpenter. 
My gracious lord, you come like an angel from 
heaven. (To the people.) Hush! can you see 
nothing? Count Egmont! Salute Count Eg- 
mont. 

Egmont. 

What ! here too ? Know ye what ye are do- 
ing ? Citizen against citizen ! Does not even 
the neighborhood of our royal mistress restrain 
this madness ? Disperse yourselves, and go to 
your business — it is a bad sign when you are idle 
of a week day. What was the cause of the riot ? 

(The tumult is quieted by degrees, and all 
stand about Egmont.) 



( 47 ) 

Carpenter. 
They are fighting about their privileges. 

Egmont. 

Which they will yet wilfully destroy ! And who 
are you, pray? You seem honest people. 
Carpenter. 

We try to be. 

Egmont. 
What is thy calling ? 

Carpenter. 
I 'm a carpenter, and head of the guild. 
Egmont. 

And thou ? 

Soest. 

A shopkeeper. 

Egmont. 
And thou — what art thou ? 

Jetter. 

A tailor. 

Egmont. 

I remember. Thou didst help to make the 
liveries for my servants. Thy name is Jetter. 

Jetter. 

Too much honor that your highness remembers 

it. 

Egmont. 

I forget no man easily whom I have once seen 
and spoken to. 

Good people, what most behooves you is to keep 
the peace. Do so, then. You are low enough 
in favor already : do not provoke the king farther ; 



( 48 ) 



he has, after all, the power in his hands. A good 
citizen, who maintains himself honorably and in-^ 
dustriously, has, everywhere, as much freedom as 
he needs. 

Carpenter. 
Ah, indeed ! that 's just our trouble. It 's the 
idlers, and drunkards, and good-for-nothing fel- 
lows, by your highness' leave, who pick quarrels for 
want of something to do, cry privilege from sheer 
hunger, and tell lies to the curious and credulous. 
To get pay for a pot of beer, they stir up mischief 
that will make thousands miserable. But they 
are right enough. We keep our houses and 
chests too well guarded : they would gladly drive 
us from them with firebrands. 

Egmont. 

You shall have every assistance. Measures 
have been taken to meet the evil with force. 
Stand firm against the strange doctrines, and do 
not think to strengthen your rights by sedition. 
Stay at home, and allow no gatherings in the 
streets. Sensible people can do much. 

(In the mean time the greater part of the 
crowd has dispersed.) 

Carpenter. 
Thanks, your Excellency — thanks for your 
good opinion. We '11 do all in our power. ( Exit 
Egmont.) A gracious lord ! a true Netherlander ! 
Nothing Spanish about him ! 

Jetter. 

If we only had him for Regent ! It 's a pleas- 
ure to serve him. 



( 49 ) 



SoEST. 

The king won't do that. He always fills the 
place with his friends. 

Jetter. 

Did you see his coat ? It was the newest fash- 
ion — Spanish cut. 

Carpenter. 
Ay, a handsome man. 

Jetter. 

His neck would be a dainty morsel for an exe- 
cutioner. 

Soest. 

Art thou mad ? What art thinking about ? 
Jetter. 

Stupid enough, to be sure, to have such a fancy. 
But it 's just so with me. When I see a fine, long 
neck, I can't help thinking at once how well it 
would cut. These cursed executions ! One can't 
get them out of one's mind. If the lads are bath- 
ing, and I see a naked back, I think at once of 
the dozens of them that I have seen whipped with 
rods. If I meet with a fair, round paunch, I say 
to myself, I shall soon see that roasting at the 
stake. In my dreams I suffer torture in all my 
limbs ; there 's no hour one can enjoy one's self. 
I 've forgotten almost all fun and frolic — it seems 
as if these terrible images were branded into my 
forehead. 

7 



( 50 ) 



SCENE SECOND. 

Egmont's Apartment. 

His Secretary. 
(At a table, with papers — gets up in disquiet.) 

Still he comes not ! and I have waited already 
two hours, pen in hand and the papers before me. 
And to-day, too, when I wanted so much to be 
out betimes ! The floor burns under my feet — 
I can scarcely remain for impatience. " Be here 
punctually at the hour/' was his command before 
he went away, and now he comes not ! There is 
so much to do, I shall not finish before midnight. 
True, he winks at my negligences ; but I should 
like better that he were strict, so that he dismissed 
me at the appointed time. It is two hours, al- 
ready, since he left the Regent : who knows whom 
he has fallen in with by the way ? 

Enter Egmont. 

Well, how do matters look ? 

Secretary. 
I am ready, and three messengers are waiting. 

Egmont. 

I must have staid too long — you wear a griev- 
ous face. 

Secretary. 
I have waited a long time, according to your 
orders. Here are the papers. 



( 51 ) 



Egmont. 

Donna Elvira will be angry with me when she 
hears that I have detained you. 

Secretary. 
You jest, my lord. 

Egmont. 

Nay, nay, be not ashamed. You show good 
taste. She is pretty, and I am glad that you have 
a friend at the palace. What say the letters? 
Secretary. 

They bring various accounts, and little that is 
agreeable. 

Egmont. 

It is well that we have pleasure at home, and 
need not depend on it from abroad. Is there much 
arrived ? 

Secretary. 
Enough — and three messengers wait. 
Egmont. 

Begin then — to the most important. 

Secretary. 
All is important. 

Egmont. 

One thing after another then — only quick ! 

Secretary. 
Captain Breda sends an account of what has 
farther taken place in Ghent and the surrounding 
country. The riots are nearly quieted. 

Egmont. 

He writes, too, of single instances of, riotous 
conduct and foolhardiness, does he not ? 



( 52 ) 



Secretary. 
Yes, there is a good deal of that. 

Egmont. 
Spare me the recital. 

Secretary. 
Six more persons have been arrested, who pulled 
down the image of the Virgin at Berwick. He 
inquires whether he shall hang them as well as the 
others. 

Egmont. 

I am weary of hanging. Let them be whipped 
and set free. 

Secretary. 
There are two women amongst them — shall he 
whip them too ? 

Egmont. 

He may give them warning, and let them go. 

Secretary. 
Brink, of Breda's company, wishes to be mar- 
ried. The captain hopes you will refuse his re- 
quest. He writes : " There are so many women 
among us, that when we move our camp, we look 
more like a gang of gipsies than soldiers on the 
march." 

Egmont. 

We may stretch a point for him. He is a 
young fellow, and entreated me, too, most earnest- 
ly, before I came away. But it shall be allowed 
to no one hereafter. It grieves me, though, to 
deny the poor devils their best pleasure : they 
have troubles enough without this. 



( 53 ) 



Secretary. 
Two of your people, Seter and Hart, have 
played falsely with a girl, the daughter of an inn- 
keeper. They laid hands on her when she was 
alone, and she could not escape from them. 
Egmont. 

If she be an honest maiden, and they used 
force, let him have them beaten three days in 
succession with rods, and, if they possess any 
property, let him take as much of it as will furnish 
the girl a portion. 

Secretary. 
One of the foreign preachers went through 
Comines secretly, and has been discovered. He 
swears that he intended to go to France. Ac- 
cording to orders, he should be beheaded. 

Egmont. 

Let them take him quietly to the frontier, and 
make him understand that, the next time, he will 
not get off so easily. 

Secretary. 
Here is a letter from your steward. He writes, 
that but little money comes in, and that he can, 
with difficulty, raise the required sum within the 
week. The riots had put every thing into the 
greatest confusion. 

Egmont. 

The money must be forthcoming ; let him look 
to the means. 

Secretary. 
He says he will do his utmost, and proposes to 



( 54 ) 

sue Raymond, who has been so long in your debt, 
and have him imprisoned. 

Egmont. 
He has already promised to pay. 

Secretary, 
The last time he fixed fourteen days himself. 

Egmont. 

Then give him fourteen days more ; and after 
that, they may proceed against him. 

Secretary. 
You do right : it is not inability, but obstinacy. 
He will be in earnest when he sees that you are 
not jesting. — The steward proposes, farther, to 
hold back a half-month's pay from the old soldiers, 
widows and others, to whom you have given pen- 
sions. In the mean time, some expedient can be 
hit upon ; they must make their arrangements ac- 
cordingly. 

Egmont. 

What arrangements can they make ? They 
need the money more than I do. He must not 
touch that. 

Secretary. 
Whence, then, will you order him to get the 
money ? 

Egmont. 

Let him consider awhile. It has already been 
told him in former letters. 

Secretary. 
J T is on that account he makes these proposals. 



( 55 ) 



Egmont. 

They '11 not serve. He must think of some- 
thing else. He must propose what is admissible 
— and, above all, he must procure the money. 
Secretary. 

T have placed again here the letter from Count 
Oliva. Pardon me for reminding you of it. The 
old gentleman deserves, before all others, a full 
answer. You thought of writing to him yourself. 
Indeed, he loves you as a father. 

Egmont. 

I cannot bring myself to it. Of all hateful 
things, writing is to me the most hateful. Stay; 
you imitate my hand so well, do you write to him 
in my name. I expect Orange No, I can- 
not bring myself to it ; and besides, 't were bet- 
ter something very soothing should be written to 
quiet his apprehensions. 

Secretary. 

Only give me your ideas in general terms, and 
I will make a draft of the answer in a moment, 
and lay it before you. It shall be written so that 
it would pass in a court of justice for your own 
hand. 

Egmont. 

Give me the letter. ( After looking in it.) 
Excellent, honorable old man ! Wert thou, too, 
in thy youth, so cautious ? Didst thou never 
mount a wall ? didst thou remain behind in battle, 
where prudence dictated ? — What friendly anxi- 
ety ! He wishes well to my life and fortune, and 
does not perceive that he who lives but for his 



( 56 ) 



own safety, is already dead. — Write to him not 
to be concerned ; that, in whatever way I act, I 
shall be upon my guard. Let him use his consid- 
eration at court in my favor, and be assured of my 
heartfelt thanks. 

Secretary. 
Nothing farther? Oh, he expects more. 
Egmont. 

What more shall I say ? If you wish to add 
more words, it is at your option. The matter 
turns on this single point — I am to live as I can- 
not live. That I am gay, take things lightly, live 
quickly, is my good fortune ; and I will not ex- 
change it for the security of a tomb. I have not 
a drop of blood in my veins that fits me for the 
Spanish mode of life, and I have no desire to 
fashion my steps according to the cautious measure 
of the court. Am I to live only to think of life? 
Am I to forego the enjoyment of the present mo- 
ment, that I may be sure of the next? and is that 
again to be consumed by care and vain fears? 
Secretary. 

I beg of you, my lord, be not so harsh with the 
good old man. You are wont to be friendly 
toward all. Say an agreeable word that may quiet 
the anxiety of your noble friend. Observe how 
careful he is ! with what delicacy he urges you ! 
Egmont. 

Yet he is ever harping on this string. He know T s 
of old how hateful these admonitions are to me ; 
they but perplex — they do no good. And were I 
walking in my sleep on some giddy housetop, is it 



( 57 ) 



the part of friendship to call me by name and 
warn me ? to wake and kill me ? Let each go 
his own way, and look to his own safety. 

Secretary. 

It is not in your nature to fear : but those that 

know and love you 

Egmont (looking at the letter.) 

Then he brings up again the old stories of what 
we did and said, one evening, in the mere wanton- 
ness of wine and good-fellowship ; and what con- 
sequences and proofs were drawn, or rather forced 
from it, throughout the whole kingdom. Well, 
what then ? we fastened foolscaps and bells to the 
sleeves of our servants, and afterwards changed 
these senseless ornaments for a bundle of arrows 
— a yet more dangerous symbol for all who would 
explain where there is nothing to be explained. 
This, and every folly of the kind, we contrived 
and brought forth in a moment of gayety. We 
are to blame that a troop of nobles, with beggar's 
wallets and an assumed nickname took upon them- 
selves, with feigned humility to remind the king 
of his duty. We are to blame for — for what, 
pray ? Is a sport in Carnival time to be construed 
high treason ? Are we to be grudged the scanty, 
parti-colored rags that a youthful spirit and heat- 
ed fancy would hang about the poor nakedness of 
our lives ? Take life thus seriously, and what is 
there in it ? If the morning wake us to no new 
joys ; if the evening leave us no pleasure to hope 
fory is life worth the trouble of putting on and off 
our clothes ? Does the sun shine on me to-day 
8 



( 58 ) 



but that I may think on what took place yesterday, 
and may unravel and combine what cannot be un- 
ravelled or combined, the chances of the morrow ? 
Spare me these reflections ; we '11 leave them to 
pedants and courtiers. Let them fancy and con- 
trive, sneak and pry about, creep where they can, 
and get what they can. If you can use any- 
thing of all this, so that your letter be not a vol- 
ume, 'tis well. To the good old man, every 
thing appears of far too much importance. ? T is 
thus a friend, who has long held our hand, grasps 
it once more strongly, when about to quit it. 
Secretary. 
Pardon me. The traveller on foot becomes 
dizzy when he sees one driving by with rattling 
haste. 

Egmont. 

Boy ! boy ! no more ! As lashed by unseen 
spirits, the sun-steeds of time rush onward with 
the light car of our destiny ; and nought remains 
for us but, bold and collected, to grasp firmly the 
reins, and now right, now left, to steer the wheels 
clear of rocks and precipices. Whither it is going, 
who knows ? Does one even scarce bethink him 
whence it came ? 

Secretary. 
My lord ! my lord ! 

Egmont. 

I stand high ; and can, and must, mount higher. 
I feel within me hope — courage — power. I 
have not yet reached the summit of my ambition ; 
and, once arrived there, I will stand firmly, not 



( 59 ) 



fearfully. If 1 fall — if a thunderbolt, a hurri- 
cane, even a false step of my own, hurl me into 
the abyss — I shall lie there with many thousands. 
I have never refused to cast the bloody lot with 
my gallant comrades for a small gain ; and shall 
I hesitate, when all that life has of value is at 
stake ? 

Secretary. 

my lord, you know not what you say. God 
preserve you ! 

Egmont. 

Gather up your papers. Orange is coming. 
Get ready what is of most importance, that the 
messengers may set out before the gates are 
closed. For the rest there is no hurry. The let- 
ter to the Count you may leave till morning. Do 
not fail to visit Elvira, and greet her for me. In- 
quire about the Regent's health. She cannot be 
well, though she conceal it. (Exit Secretary.) 

(Enter Orange.) 

Egmont. 

Welcome, Orange ! You seem not quite at 
ease. 

Orange. 

What do you say to our conversation with the 
Regent ? 

Egmont. 

1 observed nothing extraordinary in her manner 
of receiving us. I have seen her frequently the 
same before. She seemed to me somewhat in- 
disposed. 



( 60 ) 



Orange. 

Did you not notice that she was more reserved 
than usual ? She began by calmly approving our 
behavior on the occasion of the late popular com- 
motions ; hinted at the false light that might, nev- 
ertheless, be cast on it ; then turned the conver- 
sation to her accustomed discourse — that her kind 
manners, her friendship to us Netherlander, had 
never been sufficiently acknowledged, had been 
treated as an affair of no consequence ; that noth- 
ing turned out as she had wished ; finally, that she 
was tired, and that the king would decide on other 
measures. Did you hear this ? 

Egmont. 

Not all : I was thinking at the time of some- 
thing else. She is a vvoman, good Orange : and 
these women wish that every thing should bend 
passively to their soft yoke ; that every Hercules 
should lay aside the lion's skin, and swell their 
spinning court. They think, because they are 
peaceably disposed, that the excitement that seizes 
a people, the storm which powerful rivals raise 
one against another, may be allayed by one friend- 
ly word, and the most adverse elements unite 
themselves in pleasing harmony at their feet. 
This is her case : and since she cannot attain her 
end, she has nothing left but to lose her tem- 
per, complain of ingratitude and folly, draw terri- 
ble prospects of the future, and threaten to take 
her departure. 

Orange. 

Do you not believe, this time, that she will ful- 
fil her threat ? 



( 61 ) 



Egmont. 

Never ! How often, already, have we seen 
her prepared for her journey ! Whither, then, 
will she go ? Here, she is stadtholder — queen ; 
and do you believe that she will undertake to 
drag on her days in insignificance at the court of 
her brother ? or that she will go to Italy, and 
encumber herself with old family connexions? 
Orange. 

She is thought incapable of this determination, 
because you have seen her hesitate and retreat : 
nevertheless, she is capable of it, and new events 
will drive her to the long-delayed resolve. What 
if she were to go, and the king send another in 
her stead ? 

Egmont. 

Why, he would come, and he, too, w r ould find 
much to do. He would come with vast plans 
and projects that are to set all things right, bring 
them to subjection, and hold them there. To-day 
he would have to deal with one trifle, and to- 
morrow with another ; find some obstacle the 
next ; consume one month in plans, another in 
irritation at enterprises miscarried ; and a half 
year in cares about a single province. His time, 
too, will pass by, his head grow dizzy, and things 
will hold on their course as before. So that instead 
of sailing over w 7 ide seas, according to a course 
marked out, he may thank God if, in the storm ? 
he keep his vessel from the rocks. 

Orange. 

But what if the king were counselled to try an 
experiment ? 



( 62 ) 



Egmont. 
Which were ? 

Orange. 

To see what the body would do without the 
head. 

Egmont. 
How do you mean ? 

Orange. 

Egmont, I bear in mind all our relations with 
the court, for many years back. I stand always 
as if over a chess-board, and hold no move of the 
adversary unimportant. As men of leisure study 
the secrets of Nature with the greatest diligence, 
so I consider it the duty, the vocation of a prince, 
to know the intentions and deliberations of all 
parties. — I have cause to fear an outbreak. The 
king has acted long according to fixed principles ; 
he sees that he does not succeed with them — 
what more probable than that he will seek success 
in another way ? 

Egmont. 

I do not believe it. A man that has grown 
old, and has made so many trials, and always failed 
in bringing things to order, must needs be satisfied. 

Orange. 

One thing he has not tried. 

Egmont. 

What then ? 

Orange. 

To spare the people, and destroy the princes. . 



( 63 ) 



Egmont. 

How many have feared this for a long time 
past ! There is no cause for anxiety. 

Orange. 

Once it was anxiety : soon it became expecta- 
tion with me, and at last certainty. 

Egmont. 

And has the king more faithful servants than 
we ? 

Orange. 

We serve him in our own way ; and, between 
ourselves, we may confess that we know well how 
to weigh the king's rights and our own against 
each other. 

Egmont. 

Who does not do the same ? We are subject 
to him, and render him the service that is his 
due. 

Orange. 

But if he claimed more, and called that dis- 
loyalty which we call standing on our rights ? 

EGxMONT. 

We shall be able to protect ourselves. Let 
him call together the knights of the golden fleece ; 
we will abide their judgment. 

Orange. 

And what were sentence before trial ? — pun- 
ishment before the sentence ? 

, Egmont. 
An injustice, of which Philip will never be 
guilty ; and a folly that I do not believe him and 
his counsellors capable of. 



( 64 ) 



Orange. 

But if they were unjust and foolish ? 
Egmont. 

No, Orange ; it is not possible. Who shall 
dare to lay hands on us ? To take us prisoners 
were a forlorn and fruitless enterprise. — No, they 
dare not raise the standard of tyranny so high. 
The breeze, that carries this intelligence over the 
country, will kindle a fearful conflagration. *\nd 
w 7 hat would they propose to themselves ? The 
king cannot judge and condemn alone ; and 
w r ould they assassinate us ? — They cannot think 
of it. A fearful league would unite the people 
on the instant : hatred of the Spanish name, and 
an eternal separation from it, w T ould be vehemently 
declared. 

Orange. 

The flame would rage, then, over our grave, and 
the blood of our enemies flow a vain sacrifice. 
No, Egmont, let us take counsel. 

Egmont. 
But how would they execute this ? 

Orange. 
Alva is on his way hither. 

Egmont. 
I do not believe it. 

Orange. 

I know it. 

Egmont. 

The Regent seemed to know nothing of it. 



( 65 ) 
Orange. 

For that reason I am the more convinced of it. 
The Regent will cede her place to him. I know 
his sanguinary tastes, and he brings an army with 
him. 

Egmont. 

To burden the provinces anew ? The people 
will be discontented to the last degree. 

Orange. 
The leaders will be arrested. 

Egmont. 

No ! no ! 

Orange. 

Let us go, each to his province. There we 
can strengthen ourselves. Alva will not begin 
with open force. 

Egmont. 

Must we not present ourselves to greet him on 
his arrival ? 

Orange. 

We will delay. 

Egmont. 

And what if he order us in the king's name ? 

Orange. 
We will seek evasions. 

Egmont. 

And if he insist ? 

Orange. 
We will excuse ourselves. 
^ Egmont. 
And if he be still more urgent ? 
9 



( 66 ) 



Orange. 
We will come so much the less. 

Egmont. 

And war is declared, and we are rebels ? 
Orange, do not suffer yourself to be led astray by 
an excessive prudence ; I know it is not fear 
makes you yield. — Consider this step. 

Orange. 
I have considered it. 

Egmont. 

Reflect on what you are answerable for, if in 
error ; for the most destructive war that ever 
desolated a country. Your refusal to appear is the 
signal that calls the provinces at once to arms, 
that justifies every cruelty, for which Spain has, 
hitherto, gladly seized a pretext. With a single look 
you will excite to the most fearful confusion what, 
wifh much time and labor, we have succeeded in 
quieting. Think of the cities, the nobles, the 
people ; of commerce, agriculture, industry of 
every kind ; and think of the death and destruc- 
tion that you are about to bring upon them. The 
soldier, indeed, sees with calmness his comrades 
fall at his side in the field of battle ; but the 
corpses of citizens, of children, of maidens, will 
float down the stream to you, till you stand aghast 
with horror, and know no longer whose cause you 
are defending, since those, for whose liberty you 
took up arms, have perished. — And what will be 
your feelings, then, if forced to acknowledge that 
you took them up for your own safety ? 



( 67 ) 



Orange. 

We do not stand alone, Egmont. If it become 
us to offer up ourselves for thousands, it behooves 
us equally to spare ourselves for thousands. 

Egmont. 

Who spares himself must become suspicious to 
himself. 

Orange. 

Who knows himself can, with safety, advance 
or retreat. 

Egmont. 

The evil that you fear will be rendered certain 
by your deed. 

Orange. 

It is the part of prudence and bravery to go to 
meet an unavoidable evil. 

Egmont. 

When the danger is so great, the faintest hope 
must be considered. 

Orange. 

We have not the smallest foothold remaining ; 
the precipice lies hard before us. 

Egmont. 

Is the king's favor so narrow a ground ? 

Orange. 
Not narrow, but slippery. 

Egmont. 

By Heaven ! they do him injustice. I cannot 
endure that he should be thought unworthily of. 
He is Charles's son, and incapable of meanness. 



( 68 ) 



Orange. 

Kings can do no meanness. 

Egmont. 
He should be known. 

Orange. 

This very knowledge is it, that counsels us not 
to await a dangerous proof. 

Egmont. 

No proof is dangerous for which one has cour- 
age. 

Orange. 
You are excited, Egmont. 

Egmont. 
I must see with my own eyes. 

Orange. 

Oh that, this time, you would see with mine ! 
My friend, you think you see because you have 

them open. I am going. Await Alva's 

coming, and God be with you. Perhaps my 
refusal to appear will save you. Perhaps the 
dragon will think he catches nothing, if he do not 
swallow us both at once. Perhaps he will delay, 
in order to carry out his purpose more surely ; 
and perhaps you will, in the mean time, see the 
affair in its true light. But quick ! quick ! save, 

O save yourself ! Farewell ! — Let nothing 

escape your vigilance. How many troops he 
brings with him, how he garrisons the city, what 
power the Regent retains, how your friends are 
prepared — inform me of every thing. (After a 
pause,) Egmont ! 



( 69 ) 



Egmont. 

What will you ? 

Orange (grasping his hand.) 
Be persuaded — go with me. 

Egmont. 
How ? Tears, Orange ! 

Orange. 

5 Tis not unmanly to weep for a lost fellow- 
creature. 

Egmont. 
You think me lost ? 

Orange. 

You are. Consider well : but a short respite 
remains to you. (Exit.) 

Egmont (alone.) 

That the thoughts of other men should have 
such influence over us ! — This would never have 
entered my head ; but this man infects me with 

his apprehensions. Away! It is a strange 

drop in my veins. Cast it forth again, kind 
Nature. There is yet left me a friendly means to 
wipe the lines of thought from my brow. 



ACT THIRD. 



SCENE FIRST. 

Palace of the Regent. 

Margaret of Parma, (alone.) 
I might have expected it. Oh ! when one's 
life is passed in labor and trouble, he thinks he 
does all in his power; and he who, from a dis- 
tance, looks on and issues his commands, believes 
that he requires only what is possible. — O, ye 
kings! — I had not believed that it could have 
irked me thus. It is so sweet to govern ! — and 
to abdicate ? — I know not how my father could 
do it ; but I am resolved on it too. 

Machiavel appears in the background. 
Regent. 

Come nearer, Machiavel. I am reflecting on 
my brother's letter. 

Machiavel. 
Might I know what it contains ? 

Regent. 

As much tender regard for me as anxiety for 
his States. He praises the firmness, diligence and 
fidelity, with which I have hitherto watched the 
rights of his crown in these provinces. He re- 
grets that the unruly people cause me so much 



( 71 ) 



trouble. He is so completely convinced of the 
profoundness of my judgment, so exceedingly 
satisfied with the wisdom of my conduct, that I 
am almost forced to say that the letter is too com- 
plimentary for a king ; certainly, for a brother. 

Machiavel. 
It is not the first time that he expresses to you 
his just satisfaction. 

Regent. 

But the first time that it is mere rhetorical show. 

Machiavel. 
I do not understand you. 

Regent. 

You will. — For, after this preface, he ex- 
presses his opinion that, without troops, without a 
small army, I shall always make but a sorry figure 
here ! We did wrong, he says, to withdraw our 
soldiers from the provinces, at the complaint of 
the inhabitants. A garrison, he thinks, that bears 
heavily upon the neck of the citizen, will prevent 
him by its weight from taking lofty flights. 

Machiavel. 
It would excite the people's minds, to the 
extreme. 

Regent. 

But the king thinks, do you hear ? — he thinks 
that an able general, one who listens to no rea- 
son, will make quick work with people and no- 
bles, citizens and peasants; — and he sends, 
therefore, with a strong army — the Duke of 
Alva. 



( 72 ) 



Machiavel. 

Alva? 

Regent. 
You are surprised? 

Machiavel. 
You say he sends. He asJcs, surely, whether 
he shall send ? 

Regent. 
The king asks not : he sends. 

Machiavel. 
You will have an experienced soldier, then, in 
your service. 

Regent. 

In my service ? Speak out boldly, Machiavel. 

Machiavel. 
I would not anticipate you. 

Regent. 

And I would fain deceive myself. I feel this 
sensibly, most sensibly. I would rather my bro- 
ther said what he thinks, than that he should sign 
his name to formal epistles drawn up by a Secre- 
tary of State. 

Machiavel. 
Should not this be looked into ? 

Regent. 

I know them thoroughly. They want every 
thing well swept and cleaned ; and, since they do 
not put their own hand to the work, every one 
obtains their confidence, who comes with the b£- 
som in his hand. Oh ! it seems as if I saw the 
king and his council worked on yonder tapestry. 



( ^ ) 



Machiavel. 

So distinctly ? 

Regent. 

No feature is wanting. There are good men 
among them. The honorable Roderick, so ex- 
perienced and so moderate, who aims not too 
high, and yet lets nothing escape him ; the up- 
right Alonzo, the hard-working Freneda, the 
stanch Las Vargas, and others who are with 
them when the good side is in power. But there 
sits the hollow-eyed Toledan, # with iron brow 
and deep glance of fire — he mutters between his 
teeth about womanish softness and ill-timed clem- 
ency ; that women can be carried well enough by 
trained steeds, but make poor masters of horse — 
and the like jests, that, in former times, I have 
been forced to hear from their political lordships. 

Machiavel. 
You have chosen a high coloring for your pic- 
ture. 

Regent. 

Confess, Machiavel, that, paint as I might, 
there could be no shade so dark, so deeply black 
as Alva's complexion, or the colors with which he 
paints. With him, every one is alike a scoffer of 
God and the king ; for, under this head, they can 
all be broken on the wheel, impaled, quartered, 
and burnt. — The good that I have done here 
seems like nothing in the distance, for the very 
reason that it is good. — Then he dwells upon 
every piece of mischief that is gone by, remem- 

* Alva. 

10 



( 74 ) 



bers every disturbance that is quieted ; and we 
shall appear in the king's eyes so full of audacity, 
sedition and rebellion, that he will imagine the 
people are devouring one another, while, with us, 
the mere passing rudeness of a rough people has 
long since been forgotten. Upon this, he con- 
ceives a heartfelt hatred for the poor people ; they 
appear loathsome in his eyes, ay, like beasts and 
monsters ; he looks about him for fire and sword, 
and, in this way, thinks to bring human beings 
to submission.' 

Machiavel. 
Your highness seems to me too violent ; you 
take the matter too seriously. Do you not still 
remain Regent ? 

Regent. 

I know that. He will bring instructions. — I 
have grown old enough in matters of state to 
know how one can be supplanted without the ap- 
pearance of depriving him of his place. — First 
he will bring instructions which will be indefinite 
and obscure ; he will widen his grasp, (for he has 
the power ;) and if I complain, he will plead 
secret instructions ; if I ask to see them, he will 
temporize ; if I insist, he will show me a paper 
containing'something altogether different ; and if 
I be not satisfied then, he will take no more notice 
than if I had not spoken. In the mean time, he will 
have done what I had apprehended, and thwarted 
the plans that I had at heart. 

Machiavel. 
Would I could contradict you ! 



( 75 ) 



Regent. 

What, with unspeakable forbearance, I have 
succeeded in quieting, he will again excite by 
severity and cruelty. I shall see my work ruined 
before my eyes, and, in addition too, have to bear 
the blame of it myself. 

Machiavel. 
Does your highness anticipate that ? 

Regent. 

I have sufficient control over myself to be 
quiet. Let him come : I will make way for him 
with the best grace, before he compel me to it. 

Machiavel. 
So quick this important step ? 

Regent. 

A more difficult one than you think. He who 
is accustomed to govern ; whose privilege it is to 
hold, each day, the fate of thousands in his hands, 
steps from the throne into the grave. But better 
so than remain a corpse among the living, and, 
with hollow aspect, endeavor to maintain a place 
that another has snatched from him, and already 
possesses and enjoys. 



( 76 ) 



SCENE SECOND. 
Clara's Dwelling. 
Clafu and her Mother. 
Mother. 

Such love as Brackenburg's I have never seen ; 
I thought it was only to be found in romances. 

Clara (ivalks up and down, humming,) 

Happy alone 

Is the soul that has lov'd. 

Mother. 

He suspects your connexion with Egmont, and 
I believe that if you would treat him a little 
kindly, he 5 d marry you yet, if you wished it. 

Clara sings : 

Joyful 
And tearful, 

Thoughts racking the brain ; 

Longing 

And fearing, 

In doubt and in pain ; 

To heaven loud shouting, 

To death's door removed — 

Happy alone 

Is the soul that has lov'd. 

Mother. 
Cease that baby's song. 

Clara. 

Do n't abuse it ; 't is a famous song. I 've many 
a time put a big child to sleep with it. 



( 77 ) 



Mother. 

You We got nothing in your head but your 
love. Do n't let this make you forget every thing- 
else, though. I tell you, you ought to honor Brack- 
enburg. He can make you happy yet. 

Clara. 

He? 

Mother. 

O yes ; a time will come ! — You children see 
nothing beforehand, and will not hearken to our 
experience. Youth and love, all have an end, 
and a time comes when one thanks God if there 's 
any place to hide one's self. 

Clara (shudders, and after a pause, rises.) 

Mother, let that time come — let death come ! 
To think of it is horrible ! — And if it come ! if 
we must — then — we '11 do what we can. Lose 
thee, Egmont ! (sobbing.) No, it is not possible ! 

(Enter Egmont, tvrapped in a horseman's cloaJc, 
his hat drawn over his face.) 

Clara (gives a cry, and steps back.) 
Egmont ! (She hastens to him.) Egmont ! 
(Embraces him, and rests in his arms.) O you 
dear, good Egmont ! Are you come ? are you 
indeed here ? 

Egmont. 
Good evening, mother. 

Mother. 

God greet you, my noble lord. My little 
daughter has almost died of grief because you 
staid away so long ; she has talked and sung of you 
again the whole day. 



( 78 ) 

Egmont. 
Can you give me supper ? 

Mother. 

Too much honor ; if we only had any thing. 
Clara. 

By all means. Do n't trouble yourself, mother. 
I Ve arranged every thing, and have something 
ready now. Do n't betray me, mother, ( aside.) 

Mother. 
There 's little enough. 

Clara. 

Only wait a little. Besides, I 'm not hungry 
at all when he 's near me ; and he ought not to 
have a great appetite when I'm with him. 

Egmont. 

Do you think so ? 

( Clara stamps with her foot, and turns her back 
pettishly.) 

Egmont. 
What is the matter ? 

Clara. 

How cold you are to-day ! You 've not offered 
to kiss me once yet. Why do you keep your 
arms wrapped up in your mantle like a babe in 
swaddling clothes ? It does not become a soldier 
or a lover either, to keep his arms confined. 

Egmont. 

Sometimes, love, sometimes. When the sol- 
dier lies in wait, and would deceive the enemy, 



( 79 ) 

he collects himself, folds his arms, and matures 

his plans — And a lover 

Mother. 

Will you not sit down and make yourself com- 
fortable ? I must go into the kitchen ; Clara 
thinks of nothing when you are here. You must 
put up with what we have. 

Egmont. 

Your good will is the best seasoning. (Exit 
Mother.) 

Clara. 
And what is my love, then ? 

Egmont. 
Whatever you please. 

Clara. 

Compare it, if you dare. 

Egmont. 

First, then — (He throws off his cloak, and 
discovers a magnificent dress.) 

Clara. 

Oh heavens ! 

Egmont. 

Now my arms are free. (Embraces her.) 
Clara. 

Don't, you '11 spoil your dress. How superb! 
I do n't dare to touch you. 

Egmont. 

Are you satisfied ? I promised you to come 
sometime in my Spanish dress. 



( 80 ) 



Clara. 

I have asked you no more about it since ; I 
thought you would not like to — Oh ! and the 
Golden Fleece ! 

Egmont. 
There, you see it now. 

Clara. 

And did the emperor hang this round your 
neck ? 

Egmont. 

Yes, my child. And this chain and image 
give to him that w 7 ears them the noblest privileges. 
I acknowledge no judge on earth of my actions, 
but the grand master of the Order with the assem- 
bled chapter of knights. 

Clara. 

O, you might let the whole world judge you. 
The velvet is too beautiful ; and the lace and the 
embroidery ! — one does not know where to begin. 

Egmont. 

Look your fill. 

Clara. 

And the Golden Fleece ! You told me the his- 
tory of it, and said that it was a sign of every thing 
great and precious, that toil and pains have won 
and merited. It is very costly. I can compare 
it to nothing but your love. Even so I wear it 

next my heart, and then 

Egmont. 
What would you say ? 

Clara. 

And then again it is not like it. 



( 81 ) 
Egmont. 

How so ? 

Clara. 

I have not earned it by toil and pains ; I have 
not deserved it. 

Egmont. 

In love it is otherwise. You deserve it because 
you do not strive for it — and for the most part, 
those only gain love who do not hunt after it. 

Clara. 

Do you judge from your own case ? Did you 
make that proud remark about yourself? You, 
whom everybody loves ? 

Egmont. 

Oh that I had done something for them, or 
could still do any thing for them ! It is from pure 
good nature they love me. 

Clara. 

You have been at the Regent's to-day, of 
course. 

Egmont. 

I have. 

Clara. 

Are you on good terms with her ? 

Egmont. 

Why, we seem so. We are friendly and ser- 
viceable one to another. 

Clara. 

And sincerely ? 
11 



( BS ) 



Eg MONT. 

I wish her well. We have each our own view?, 
But that is nothing to the purpose. She is an 
excellent woman, knows whom she has to deal 
with, and would see deep enough if she were not 
a little too suspicious. I give her a deal of trouble, 
because she is always seeking for secret motives 
behind my actions, and I have none. 

Clara. 
Really, none at all ? 

Egmont. 

Why. perhaps, a very little reserve. All wine 
deposits lees in the cask, with time. But Or- 
ange is a still better entertainment for her ; he is 
always a new riddle. He has got himself the 
credit of always having some secret plan ; and 
now she does nothing but look at his brow, to dis- 
cover his thoughts, and scrutinize his steps, to 
learn whither he is going. 

Clara. 

Does she dissemble ? 

Eoioxt. 

She the Regent, and you ask the question : 
Clara. 

Pardon me. I meant to ask if she play false. 

Eg MONT. 

-Not more nor less than every one who would 
attain his ends. 

Clara. 

I do not understand the world. But she has 
a masculine spirit, too. and is a different woman 



( 83 ) 



from us seamstresses and cooks. She is great, 
bold, decided. 

Egmont. 

Yes, when things do not get too much confused. 
This time, however, she is a little disconcerted. 

Clara. 

How so ? 

Egmont. 

She has a moustache, too, and oftentimes an 
attack of the gout. A perfect Amazon ! 

Clara. 

What a majestic woman ! I should be afraid 
to come before her. 

Egmont. 

Yet thou art not timid on other occasions. 
Perhaps it is not fear ; only maidenly modesty. 

(Clara cast her eyes down, takes his hand, 
and leans upon him.) 

Egmont. 

I understand yon, dear girl; you may raise 
your eyes. (Kisses her forehead.) 

Clara. 

Let me be silent ; let me cling to thee. Let 
me look in thine eyes, and find every thing there ; 
consolation, and hope, and joy, and sorrow. (Em- 
braces him.) Tell, tell me ! I do not understand 
— art thou Egmont? Count Egmont? — the 
great Egmont, who causes so much wonder, who 
is spoken of in the gazettes, on whom the prov- 
inces depend ? 



( 84 ) 



Egmont. 
No, Clara, I am not. 

Clara. 

How ? 

Egmont. 

Look you, Clara — let me sit down. (He sits 
down, and she kneels on a footstool before him.) 
That Egmont is a cold, tiresome, haughty Eg- 
mont, who is obliged to retire within himself, make 
now this, and now that face; harassed, misap- 
prehended, embarrassed, when people think him 
light-hearted and jovial ; beloved by a people 
who know not what they would have ; honored 
and extolled by a multitude with whom nothing 
can be done ; surrounded, by friends whom he 
dares not trust himself with ; watched by persons 
who would use any means to supplant him ; toil- 
ing and striving, often without an object, mostly 
without reward — oh let me not speak of what he 
suffers, of what heart he must be of. But this 
Egmont, Clara, he is quiet, open-hearted, happy ; 
beloved and known by the best of hearts, which 
he too knows thoroughly, and presses with the 
fullest love and confidence to his own. (Embra- 
ces her.) This is thy Egmont ! 

Clara. 

So let me die ! The world has no joy beyond 

this. 



ACT FOURTH, 



SCENE FIRST. 
A Street. 

Jetter and Carpenter meeting, 

Jetter. 
Hist ! neighbor, a word ! 

Carpenter. 
Go your own way and be quiet. 

Jetter. 

One word only. Is there nothing new ? 

Carpenter. 
Nothing, except that we are forbidden to speak 
of the news. 

Jetter. 

What! 

Carpenter. 
Come close to the house here. Have a care ! 
The duke of Alva issued a decree just after his ar- 
rival, by which two or three, speaking together in 
the street, are declared guilty of high treason, 
without trial. 

Jetter. 

O misery ! 



( 86 ) 



Carpenter. 
It is forbidden, under pain of perpetual impris- 
onment, to speak of state affairs. 

Jetter. 

Oour liberties ! 

Carpenter. 
And no one, under pain of death, shall find fault 
with the measures of government. 

Jetter. 

O our heads ! 

Carpenter. 
And fathers, mothers, children, kinsfolk, friends 
and servants, are urged by promise of great rewards, 
to give information of what is going on in the inner- 
most parts the house, before a tribunal appointed 
for the purpose. 

Jetter. 

Let ? s go home. 

Carpenter. 

And the obedient are assured that they shall 
suffer no injury, whether in body, character or 
property. 

Jetter. 

How gracious! — J felt a pang though, the 
moment the duke came into the city. Since that 
time it seems to me as if the sky were covered 
over with a black cloth that hangs so low, that one 
must stoop not to hit against it. 

Carpenter. 
And how do you like his soldiers ? I ? 11 war- 
rant you they are a different sort of animal from 
what we Ve been used to. 



( 87 ) 
Jetter. 

Pah ! It drives one's heart into one's throat 
to see such a troop march down the streets, as 
straight as pike-staffs, with fixed looks, and all 
keeping step together. And when they stand 
sentinel, and you go by one of them, it seems as 
if he 'd look you through and through ; and he looks 
so stiff and surly, you 'd think there were a taskmas- 
ter at every corner. I do n't fancy them at all. Our 
militia were goodnatured folks ; they made them- 
selves of some importance, stood with their legs 
astride, cocked their hats, lived and let live. But 
these fellows are like so many machines, with a 
devil inside of them. 

Carpenter. 

When such a one cries " halt ! " and brings up 
his musket, people are not long in stopping, are 
they ? 

Jetter. 
I should be frightened to death. 

Carpenter. 

Let 's go home. 

Jetter. 

It won't turn out well — good day. 

Enter Soest. 
Friends ! comrades ! 

Carpenter. 
Hush ! let 's go away. 

Soest. 
Do you know ? — — 

Jetter. 

But too much. 



( 88 ) 



SOEST. 

The Regent is gone. 

Jetter. 
Then God have mercy on us ! 

Carpenter. 
She was on our side yet. 

Soest. 

She went away all of a sudden, and in secret. 
She couldn't agree with the duke. She sent 
word to the nobles that she would return ; but no- 
body believes it. 

Carpenter. 
God forgive the nobles for bringing this new 
scourge upon our necks. They might have avoid- 
ed it. Our privileges are gone. 

Jetter. 

For God's sake not a word about privilege. I 
snuff the scent of an execution ; the sun will not 
come out ; the clouds are rank. 

Soest. 
Orange, too, is gone. 

Carpenter. 
Then we are quite deserted. 

Soest. 

Count Egmont is still here. 

Jetter. 

Thank God ! May all the saints strengthen 
him to do his best ; he alone can do something. 



( 89 ) 

Enter Van sen. 
Have I at last found any body that has not hid 
himself? 

Jetter. 
Have the goodness to pass on. 

Vansen. 

You are not civil. 

Carpenter. 
It 5 s no time for compliments. Does thy back 
itch again ? Art quite cured already ? 

Vansen. 

Ask a soldier about his wounds ! If I had 
minded blows, I should not have come to any 
thing at this time. 

Jetter. 
Matters may get more serious. 

Vansen. 

Ha ! ha ! you feel then a pitiful faintness in 
your limbs from the storm that 's rising. 

Carpenter. 
Thy limbs will be in motion somewhere else, if 
thou ? rt not quiet. 

Vansen. 

Poor, miserable mice, that despair at once if 
the master of the house gets a new cat ! It J s 
only a trifle different ; but we '11 carry on our 
business as well afterwards as before, never fear. 

Carpenter. 
Thou 'rt an impertinent puppy. 
12 



( 90 ) 



Vansen. 

thou ninny ! — Only let the duke alone., 
The old cat looks as if he had eaten devils instead 
of mice, and couldn't digest them. Only let him 
alone. He must eat too, and drink, and sleep, as 
well as other people. 1 'm not afraid if we seize 
the right time. In the beginning it goes easy 
enough ; but, by and by, he '11 find that it's bet- 
ter to live in the larder among flitches of bacon, 
and sleep o'nights, than to catch straggling mice 
in the granary. Do n't be concerned, I know the 
stadtholders. 

Carpenter. 
Egad ! how every thing comes out of this fel- 
low ! If I had ever said such a thing in all my 
life, I should n't have thought myself safe a mo- 
ment. 

Vansen. 

Don't be uneasy. God in heaven knows no- 
thing of you worms ; much less the Regent. 

Jetter. 

Base slanderer ! 

Vansen. 

1 know others for whom it were better if they 
had some tailor's blood in their veins, in the place 
of their own bold spirit. 

Carpenter. 
What dost mean by that ? 

Vansen. 
Hm ! I mean the count. 

Jetter. 
Egtnont ! what has he to fear ? 



( 91 ) 



Vansen. 

I ? m a poor devil, and could live a whole year 
with what he loses in a single evening. And yet 
he 'd do well to give me a year's income, if he 
could have my head for a quarter of an hour. 

Jetter. 

Thou think of any thing right ! Why, the hairs 
of Egmont's head are wiser than thy brains. 

Vansen. 

Thou may'st say that ; but not more cunning. 
Great men are the first to deceive themselves. 
He should be sparing of his confidence. 

Jetter. 

What 's he prating about ! A nobleman like 
Egmont ! 

Vansen. 

For the very reason that he 's no tailor. 

Jetter. 
Foul-mouthed rascal ! 

Vansen. 

I wish he had your courage in him for only one 
hour, that it might make him fidgetty, and tease 
and fret him till he were forced to quit the town. 

Jetter. 

Thou speak'st in riddles ; he 's as safe as a star 
in heaven. 

Vansen. 

Hast never seen one snuffed out ? — Away it 
iioes ! 

Carpenter. 
Who will do him any harm then ? 



( ^ ) 



Vansen. 

Who? — Will you do any thing to prevent it, 
pray ? Will you stir up a rebellion, if they take 
him prisoner? 

Jetter. 

Eb! 

Vansen. 
Will you risk your ribs for him ? 

Soest. 

Oh! 

Vansen ( mocking them.) 
Eh ! oh ! ah ! Wonder away through the 
whole alphabet. So it is, and so it will remain. 
God help him ! 

Jetter. 

I 'm shocked at your impudence. Can a noble 
and righteous man like him have any thing to 
fear ? 

Vansen. 

The knave has everywhere the advantage. On 
the criminal's seat, he makes a fool of the judge ; 
on the bench, he delights in finding the accused 
guilty. I've had to copy pleadings where the 
commissary got a heavy reward in money, and 
praise too, from court, for making out a poor hon- 
est devil, whom they had a grudge against, a rogue. 

Carpenter. 
That 's a barefaced lie again. What can they 
get out by examination, if one is innocent ? 

Vansen. 

Thou shallow pate ! When there 's nothing to get 



( 93 ) 



out by a trial, why they get it in, to be sure. Hon- 
esty makes men thoughtless, and wilful too. First 
they ask him some questions in a soft manner, and 
the prisoner, proud in his innocence, (as they call 
it,) comes straight out with every thing that a man 
of sense would keep dark about. Then the judge 
makes questions again out of the answers, and 
watches for any little contradiction that may ap- 
pear. There he fastens his cord ; and the booby 
is surprised to find that he has said too much here, 
and too little there ; or perhaps been silent about 
God knows what whimsical matter — in some way 
or other, too, has let himself be frightened — Then 
we ; re on the right way ! And I warrant you, the 
beggar-women don't hunt for rags, out of the 
sweepings, with more care than your rogue-manu- 
facturer, out of little paltry, distorted, cast-off, dis- 
jointed pieces of testimony and circumstances, al- 
lowed and denied, at length botches up a ragged 
scarecrow, in order, at least, to be able to hang 
his accused in effigy. And the poor devil may 
thank God yet, if he ? s allowed to see himself 
hung. 

Jetter. 

Whew ! He 's got a nimble tongue. 

Carpenter. 
With flies, this may serve. The wasps laugh 
at your web. 

Vansen. 

That's as the spiders are. Look you, the tall 
duke has just the look of one of your garden spi- 
ders ; not a big-bellied one, (they are not so bad ;) 



( 94 ) 

but a long-legged, thin-bodied fellow, who never 
grows fat with eating, and draws right slender 
threads ) but so much the stronger for that. 

Jetter. 

Egmont is knight of the Golden Fleece ; who 
dare lay hand on him ? He can be tried only by 
his peers, only by the assembled Order. 'T is 
thy foul tongue, thy guilty conscience, that makes 
thee prate in this way. 

Vansen. 

Do I wish him ill on that account ? — I may 
be right, notwithstanding. He's a noble lord. 
He got a couple of my friends off, once, with a 
back full of blows, who would have been hung, 
else, before this. Now go — go away : I advise 
you myself. I see a patrol yonder, going the rounds 
again. They do n't look as if they would drink a 
friendly glass with us in a hurry. We '11 wait, 
and only look on quietly. 



( 95 ) 



SCENE SECOND. 
Apartment in Alva's Palace. 
Silva and Gomez meeting. 
Silva. 

Have you executed the duke's commands ? 
Gomez. 

Punctually. All the day patrols are ordered to 
assemble at the appointed time, in places that I 
have designated. In the mean time they are 
marching through the city, as usual, to keep order. 
No one knows about the others ; each one thinks 
the command concerns himself alone, and in a mo- 
ment then the line can be formed, and all entran- 
ces to the palace be occupied. Do you know 
the cause of these orders ? 

Silva. 

I am accustomed to obey blindly. And whom 
can one obey more easily than the duke? for the 
event soon proves that he has commanded rightly. 

Gomez. 

Well, well ! It 's no wonder that you are as 
close and silent as he, since you are obliged to be 
always about him. It seems strange to me, who 
have been used to the lighter service in Italy. In 
loyalty and obedience, I 'm the same as ever ; but 
I 've got used to chatting and discussing matters. 



( 98 ) 



You are all silent here, let it go ever so badly 
with you. The duke seems to me like a brazen 
tower without a gate, which the garrison must 
have wings to enter. I heard hirn say lately at 
table, of a merry, jovial fellow, that he was like a 
bad tap with a brandy sign stuck out to attract 
idlers, beggars and thieves. 

SlLVA. 

And has not he led us hither in silence ? 
Go>iez. 

There 's nothing to say against that. Ay. marry ! 

the man that has been witness to the skill with 
which he led the army out of Italy, has seen some- 
thing! How he got through friend and foe, 
through Frenchmen, royalists and heretics ; 
through Switzers and confederates ; kept the 
strictest discipline, and knew how to conduct a 
march with care, and without the least hindrance, 
that was thought so dangerous ! Ah, we ' ve seen 
and learnt something worth our while. 

SlLVA. 

And here, too — is not every thing still and 
quiet, as if there had been no insurrection ? 

Gomez. 

Why, it was almost quiet when we arrived. 

SlLVA. 

In the provinces it has become much more or- 
derly ; and if there are any in motion now. it is 
but to escape. But he '11 soon block up the way 
for them too, I 'U be bound. 



( 97 ) 
Gomez. 

He '11 be sure then to win the king's favor. 
Silva. 

And nothing remains for ns but to keep on good 
terms with him. If the king comes here, the 
duke, of course, and all he recommends, will not 
go unrewarded. 

Gomez. 

Do you believe the king is coming. 

Silva. 

There are so many preparations making, that it 
is highly probable. 

Gomez. 

They do not convince me. 

Silva. 

Then say nothing about it. For if it be not 
the king's intention to come, it certainly is, at least, 
that it should be thought sp. 

Enter Ferdinand. 
Has my father not yet appeared ? 

Silva. 
We are waiting for him. 

Ferdinand. 
The princes will soon be here. 

Gomez. 
Do they come to-day ? 

Ferdinand. 
Orange and Egmont. 

Gomez (aside to Silva.) 
I understand now. 
13 



( 98 ) 



SlLVA. 

Then keep your counsel. 

(Enter the Duke of Alva — as he enters, the 
others fall back.) 

Alva. 

Gomez ! 

Gomez (steps forward.) 

My lord. 

Alva. 

You have distributed the watch, and given them 
their orders ? 

Gomez. 

In the strictest manner. The day patrols 

Alva. 

Enough. Wait in the gallery. Silva will tell 
you the moment when you are to draw them up 
and occupy the entrances to the palace. The 
rest you know. 

Gomez. 
Yes, my lord. (Exit.) 

Alva. 

Silva ! 

Silva. 

Here, my lord. 

Alva. 

All that I have hitherto prized in you — cour- 
age, decision and unflinching execution — I shall 
expect of you to-day. 

Silva. 

I thank you, my lord, for giving me an oppor- 
tunity to show that I am still the same. 



( 99 ) 



Alva. 

The moment the princes have entered here., 
hasten at once, and take Egmont's private secre- 
tary prisoner. Have you made the necessary 
preparations to seize the others, who are specified ? 
Silva. 

Trust to us. Punctually and awfully, like a 
well-calculated eclipse, they will meet their doom. 
Alva. 

Have you had them watched attentively ? 
Silva. 

All ; especially Egmont. He is the only one 
who, since your arrival, has not changed his mode 
of life. The whole day long, he is first on one 
horse and then on another ; invites guests, is al- 
ways gay and entertaining at table, dices, hunts, 
and steals by night to his mistress. The others, 
on the contrary, have made a sensible change in 
their life, and before their doors it looks as if a 
sick man were in the house. 

Alva. 

Quick then, before they are cured m spite *cff 
us. 

Silva. 

I have them safe. By your orders we over- 
whelm them with officious honors. This fright- 
ens them ; with policy they anxiously give their 
thanks, feeling at the same time that it were most 
prudent to flee. No one dares take a step ; they 
hesitate, find it impossible to unite, and the com- 
mon spirit prevents them from doing any thing 



( ioo ) 



bold singly. They would avoid all suspicion, 
and make themselves yet more suspicious. Al- 
ready, with joy, I see your whole design fulfilled. 
Alva. 

I rejoice only over what is done; and over that 
not easily: for there ever remains much to think 
and care for. Fortune is capricious, and often 
exalts the commonplace and worthless, while well- 
considered acts she shames with an ignoble issue. 
Stay till the princes come; then give Gomez the 
order to occupy the streets, and hasten yourself to 
take prisoners Egmonts secretary, and the others 
who have been pointed out to you. This done, 
come here and tell my son, that he may bring the 
report to me in council. 

Silva. 

I hope to be able to appear before you this eve- 
ning. 

(Alva goes toward his son, who has been stand- 
ing in the gallery.) 

Silva (to himself.) 

I do not dare to lisp it to myself; but my hope 
wavers. I fear it will not turn out as he thinks. 
I see spirits before me who, quiet and thoughtful, 
weigh in black scales the fate of the princes and 
of many thousands. Slowly the beam moves up 
and down ; the judges seem buried in reflection — 
at length this scale sinks, that, breathed on by the 
caprice of fortune, rises ; and 'tis decided. (Exit.) 
Alva (coming forward with his son.) 

How did you find the town ? 



( ioi ) 



Ferdinand. 
Every thing is quiet. I rode up and down the 
streets as if for pastime. Your well-apportioned 
guard keeps fear so on the stretch that it does not 
dare to whisper. The city looks like a plain when 
the lightning in the distance portends a storm ; 
no birds, no animals are seen but are sneaking in 
haste to a place of safety. 

Alva. 

Have you met with nothing else ? 

Ferdinand. 

Egmont, in company with a few others, rode 
into the market-place, and we exchanged greet- 
ings. He had an unbroken horse that I could 
not help praising. " We must make haste and 
break our horses," he cried ; " we shall soon have 
need of them." He said he would see me again 
to-day; that he was coming at your request, to 
confer w T ith you. 

Alva. 
He will see you again. 

Ferdinand. 
Of all the noblemen that I know here, he pleases 
me the most. I think we must be friends. 
Alva. 

You are always too hasty; too little cautious. 
I recognize in you, at all times, the thoughtless- 
ness of your mother, which delivered her uncon- 
ditionally into my arms. External appearances 
have led you rashly to form many a dangerous 
intimacy. 



( 102 ) 



Ferdinand. 
Your will finds me ever obedient. 

Alva. 

I forgive your young blood this thoughtless ami- 
ability, this careless gayety. Only do not forget 
to what work I am sent, and what part in it I 
would give to you. 

Ferdinand. 
Spare not your admonitions when you think 
them necessary. 

Alva (after a pause.) 

My son ! 

Ferdinand. 

My father ! 

Alva. 

The princes are coming soon — Orange and 
Egmont. It is not from want of confidence that 
I now, for the first time, disclose to you what is 
to be done. — They will not go hence again. 
Ferdinand. 

What mean you ? 

Alva. 

It is decided to keep them prisoners. — You 
are astonished ! Listen to what you have to do; 
the reasons you shall know when it is done. There 
is no time now to unfold them. With you alone 
would I speak of secrets of the greatest importance. 
A strong bond unites us — you are most dear to 
me ; on you I would bestow every thing, Not 
alone the habit of obedience would I impress upon 
you ; I would implant in you the power to com- 



( 103 ) 



mand and accomplish your ends ; I would leave 
you a great inheritance, and the king a most useful 
servant ; would endow you with the best of my 
possessions, that you may not be ashamed to 
appear amongst your brethren. 

Ferdinand. 
How can I sufficiently repay this love that you 
testify for me alone, while a whole kingdom is 
trembling before you I 

Alva. 

Now listen to what is to be done. As soon as 
the princes shall have entered, every avenue to 
the palace will be guarded. Gomez has orders 
to this effect. Silva will hasten to take Egmont's 
private secretary prisoner, together with the most 
suspicious. You will keep the guard at the gate 
and in the courtyards, under arms. Above all, 
occupy the apartments below with the trustiest 
men. Wait in the gallery until Silva returns, and 
bring me a paper of no importance, but as a sign 
that his commission is executed. Then remain in 
the antechamber till Orange goes away ; follow 
him. I detain Egmont here, as if 1 had something 
more to say to him. At the end of the gallery, 
demand Orange's sword, call the guard, and secure 
quickly the most dangerous man, while I seize 
Egmont here. 

Ferdinand. 
I obey, my father — for the first time with ao 
anxious and heavy heart. 



( 104 ) 



Alva. 

I forgive you ; this is the first great day of 
your life. 

Enter Silva. 
A messenger from Antwerp. Here is a letter 
from Orange — he does not come. 

Alva. 
Says the messenger so ? 

Silva. 

No, my heart tells me so. 

Alva. 

In thee speaks my evil genius. (After read- 
ing the letter, he makes a sign to both, and they 
retire to the gallery — Alva remains in front of 
the stage.) He comes not ! He delays declar- 
ing himself till the last moment ! He dares refuse 
to come ! So then, this time, contrary to expec- 
tation, the prudent man was too wise to be pru- 
dent ! — The hour approaches! Yet a short 
space on the dial, and a great work is accom- 
plished, or lost ; lost irrevocably — for it cannot 
be retrieved or kept secret. Long ere this have 
I reflected on every thing maturely, and bethought 
me also of this chance ; had determined too, what, 
in this case, was to be done. And now that it is 
to be done, I can scarce keep my mind from wa- 
vering anew betwixt conflicting arguments. Is it 
advisable to seize the others, when he escapes 
me? — or defer it and suffer Egmont and his fol- 
lowers, beside many others, to give me the slip, 
who perhaps are to-day, for the last time, in my 
power? — And does fate get the mastery of thee 



( ) 



too, thou unconquerable one ? How long reflect- 
ed on ! how well matured ! how great, how beau- 
tiful the plan ! How near the hope to its fulfil- 
ment ! And now at the decisive moment, thou art 
placed between two evils; as in a lottery, thou 
graspest at the dark future ; the lot thou hast is 
yet rolled up, thou knowest not if it be prize or 
blank. (He listens, as if he heard something, 
and walks to the window.) 'T is he ! — Eg- 
mont ! Did thy horse bear thee in so easily ? did 
he not start at the smell of blood, at the spirit 
who, with naked sword, received thee at the gate ? 
Dismount ! — So now thou hast one foot in the 
grave — - and now both ! — Ay, caress him, and 
for the last time pat his neck for the brave ser- 
vice he has rendered thee. — For me no choice 
remains. Egmont cannot deliver himself into my 
hands a second time, in his present delusion. 
What ho, without ! 

(Ferdinand and Silva enter in haste.) 

Do what I commanded you ; I change not my 
purpose. ( To Ferdinand.) Whatever may hap- 
pen, I detain Egmont here till you have brought 
me news from Silva. After that, keep close at 
hand. Fate has robbed you, too, of the great 
merit of taking prisoner, with your own hand, 
the king's greatest enemy. (To Silva.) Make 
haste — ( to Ferdinand) go to meet him. 
(Exeunt Silva and Ferdinand.) 

(After a few moments, enter Egmont,) 

14 



( 106 ) 



Egmont. 

I come to receive the commands of the king ; 
to hear what service he demands of our loyalty, 
which is ever devoted to him. 

Alva. 

Above all else, he wishes to hear your counsel. 
Egmont. 

On what subject ? — Does not Orange come ? 
I expected to find him here. 

Alva. 

I regret that he fails us just at this important 
time. The king wishes your opinion, your coun- 
sel, as to the means of pacifying these states 
again. He hopes, indeed, that you will cooper- 
ate powerfully with him in allaying these disturb- 
ances, and in establishing complete and lasting 
order in the provinces. 

Egmont. 

You should know better than I that every thing 
is already sufficiently quiet ; nay, was still more 
so before the appearance of the new troops excit- 
ed afresh men's minds with fear and anxiety. 

Alva. 

You seem to imply that it would have been 
more advisable, if the king had not put me in a 
situation to interrogate you. 

Egmont. 

Pardon me. Whether the king should have 
sent the army, or whether the might of his royal 
presence alone would not have operated far more 



( io^ ) 



strongly, is not for me to decide. The army is 
here ; he is not here. — But we should be very 
ungrateful, very forgetful, did we not remember 
what we owe to the Regent. It must be allowed 
that, by her conduct at once prudent and brave, 
by the use of force and authority, tact and persua- 
sion, she has quieted the insurgents, and to the 
astonishment of the world, brought back a rebel- 
lious people, in the course of a few months, again 
to their duty. 

Alva. 

I deny it not. The tumult is stilled, and every 
one seems driven back within the bounds of obe- 
dience. But does it not remain at the option of 
each one to leave these bounds ? Who shall hin- 
der the people from breaking through them ? 
Where is the power to restrain them? Who will 
warrant us that they will show themselves loyal 
and submissive in future ? Their good will is all 
the pledge that we have. 

Egmont. 

And is not the good will of a people the surest, 
the noblest pledge ? By heaven ! When could 
a king hold himself more secure, than when all 
stand for one, and one for all ? When could he be 
safer against inward and outward foes ? 

Alva. 

We cannot persuade ourselves, however, that 
such is the case here at present. 

Egmont. 

Let the king publish a general pardon, and quiet 



( 108 ) 



the public mind ; it will soon be seen that loyalty 
and affection will return with confidence. 

Alva. 

And let every one who has insulted the majesty 
of the king and the sanctuary of religion, go at 
large, free and untrammelled ! live a ready ex- 
ample to others, that monstrous crimes may be 
committed with impunity ! 

Egmont. 

And is not a crime, committed in a moment of 
thoughtlessness or intoxication, rather to be for- 
given than cruelly punished ? especially where 
there is so sure a hope, where there is a certainty, 
that the evil will not be repeated ? Would not 
kings be thus more secure ? Will not they be 
honored by the world and posterity, who could 
forgive an offence against their dignity ; could pity 
and despise it ? Will they not, for that reason, 
be likened to God, who is far too great to be 
reached by every vain blasphemy ? 

Alva. 

And therefore should the king do battle for the 
honor of God and religion, and we for the majesty 
of the king. What he that is above us disdains 
to repel, it is our duty to revenge. If /am to 
advise, not one guilty person shall rejoice in his 
impunity. 

Egmont. 

Do you think to reach them all ? Do we not 
hear daily, that fear is driving them hither and 
thither, and forcing them to leave the country ? The 



( 109 ) 



wealthy will escape, carrying with them their 
property, their children, and their friends ; the poor 
will offer their assistance to their neighbors. 

Alva. 

They will if they cannot be hindered. It is 
for this reason the king desires counsel and action 
from every prince, zeal from every stadtholder ; 
not a mere report of the actual state of affairs, and 
what might take place if every thing were suffered 
to go on as at present. To look upon a great 
evil, to flatter one's self with hope, to trust to time, 
to take a part sometimes, perhaps, as of a carnival 
evening, so that the affair gets wind, and one seems 
to do something, when he would yet do nothing — 
is not such conduct suspicious, as if one saw with 
pleasure the rebellion which he would not create, 
but is not unwilling to keep alive ? 

Egmont ( about to give vent to his feelings, re- 
strains himself, and after a short pause, speaks 
with calmness.) 

Not every design is manifest, and many a man's 
purpose may be misconstrued. We hear, how- 
ever, from all quarters, that it is not so much the 
king's purpose to govern the provinces according 
to uniform and clear laws, to strengthen the maj- 
esty of religion, and give universal peace to his 
subjects, as to bring them, unconditionally, under 
the yoke ; to rob them of their ancient rights ; to 
make himself master of their possessions ; to hem 
in the fair privileges of the nobles, that they may 
obey him alone, and devote life and limb to his 
service. Religion, it is said, is only a rich tapes- 



( no ) 



try, behind which all dangerous designs are the 
more easily contrived. The people kneel down 
and worship the holy symbol worked upon it, 
while behind lurks the decoyer, ready to entrap 
them. 

Alva. 

Must I hear this from you ? 

Egmont. 

These are not my ideas ; only what is spoken 
now here, now there, and repeated aloud by great 
and small, wise and foolish. The Netherlanders 
fear a double yoke, and who will guaranty to them 
their liberty ? 

Alva. 

Liberty ! A fine word, when understood aright ! 
What sort of liberty would they have ? What is 
the liberty of the most free ? — To do w T hat is 
right — and in this the king will not hinder them. 
No, no ! they do not think themselves free, unless 
they have the power to injure themselves and oth- 
ers. Were it not better to abdicate, than to gov- 
ern such a people ? If external enemies advance 
— on whom the citizen, occupied only with his 
immediate wants, never bestows a thought — and 
the king require aid, then they split asunder, and 
conspire at once with their foes. Far better is it 
to confine them, that they may be managed like 
children, and as children be directed to what is 
best for them. Be assured of this ; a people will 
not grow old or wise — a people remains ever in 
childhood. 



( 111 ) 



Egmont. 

How seldom does a king attain wisdom ! And 
shall not the many trust the many, rather than one ? 
And not one even, but the few creatures of that 
one, the people who grow old under the eyes of 
their master? They alone, forsooth, have the 
right to become wise. 

Alva. 

For the very reason, perhaps, that they are not 
left to themselves. 

Egmont. 

And therefore would no one wish to be his own 
master. But, come what may, I have an- 
swered your question, and I repeat that it will not 
do — it cannot do! I know my countrymen. 
They are men worthy to tread God's earth, each 
one complete in himself, a little king — firm, ac- 
tive, capable, loyal, wedded to old customs. It is 
difficult to obtain their confidence ; easy to keep 
it. Rigid and unbending, they can be urged, 
but not forced. 

Alva (has looked round several times during the 
last speech.) 
Would you repeat all this in the king's pres- 
ence ? 

Egmont. 

So much the worse if his presence deterred me ! 
The better for him and for his people, if he en- 
couraged me to say still more. 

Alva. 

Whatever is of advantage, I can hear as well 
as he. 



( US ) 



Egmont. 

I would say to him, the shepherd finds no diffi- 
culty in driving a whole flock before him ; the ox 
draws his plough without murmuring ; but if you 
would ride the noble horse, you must learn his 
ways by observation, and must be sure to require 
of him nothing unreasonable. The citizen wishes 
to preserve his old constitution, and be governed 
by his countrymen, because he knows what he 
has to expect, because he can hope for disinter- 
estedness and sympathy with his fate from them. 

Alva. 

And ought not the Regent to have power to 
alter these old usages ? Should not this be his 
noblest privilege ? What is permanent in this 
world ? And shall the administration of a state's 
government remain ever the same ? Must not, 
in the course of time, every relation change, and 
hence an old constitution become the cause of a 
thousand evils, from want of adaptation to the 
present situation of the people? — I fear the rea- 
son that these old privileges are so agreeable 
is, that they make lurking holes which the crafty 
and powerful can conceal themselves in or slip 
through, to the injury of the people and of all. 

Egmont. 

And these capricious changes, these unlimited 
encroachments of the supreme power, are they 
not presages that one would do what thousands 
should not ? The king would make himself alone 
free, in order to gratify his every wish, to be able 
to execute his every thought. And even if wc 



( 113 ) 



trusted in him entirely, as a good and wise mon- 
arch, will he answer to us for his successors ? will 
he guaranty that none shall rule without consid- 
eration, without mercy? Who is to preserve us 
from arbitrary sway, if he send his servants and 
creatures, w 7 ho, without a knowledge of the coun- 
try and its necessities, administer the government 
as they think fit, meet with no opposition, and feel 
themselves free from all responsibility ? 

Alva (who has, meanwhile, again looked round.) 

There is nothing more natural than that a king 
should wish to hold the reins of government him- 
self, and should, of preference, intrust those with 
his commands, who best understand him and de- 
sire to understand him, and who execute uncon- 
ditionally his will. 

Egmont. 

And just as natural is it, that the citizen should 
wish to be ruled by one born and brought up with 
him ; who has imbibed with him the same ideas 
of right and wrong, whom he can regard as his 
brother. 

Alva. 

And yet the nobles have made a very unequal 
division with these brethren of theirs. 

Egmont. 

That was done centuries ago, and is now suf- 
fered without jealousy. But should new men be 
needlessly sent, who should endeavor to enrich 
themselves a second time at the expense of the 
nation; should the people see themselves exposed 
to a bold, grasping, untrammelled avarice ; 3 t would 
15 



( "4 ) 



make a fermentation that would not easily be 
allayed. 

Alva. 

You tell me what I should not hear. — I, too, 
am a foreigner. 

Egmont. 

That I say it to you is proof that I do not 
mean you. 

Alva. 

And with that salvo I would not hear it from 
you. The king sent me with the hope that I 
should obtain here the assistance of the nobles. 
The king will have his will executed. He has 
concluded, after deep consideration, what is best 
for the people : things cannot remain as hereto- 
fore. It is the king's intention to constrain them 
to their own good ; to force upon them, if neces- 
sary, their own cure ; to sacrifice the noxious citi- 
zens, in order that the rest may enjoy peace and 
the blessing of a wise government. This is his 
determination. I have his orders to make it known 
to the nobles ; and I ask for counsel, in his name, 
how it shall be executed — not what shall be done, 
for on that he is resolved. 

Egmont. 

Alas ! your words confirm the people's fears, 
the fears of all. He has resolved then on what no 
prince should resolve. He would weaken the 
power of his people ; their spirit and their self- 
respect he would crush and destroy, in order to 
reign in quiet ! He would blot out the very es- 
sence of their individuality ; doubtless with a view 



( "5 ) 



to make them happier ! He would annihilate 
them, that they may be re-created in a new form ! 
Oh if his purpose be good, it is miserably led as- 
tray ! We do not resist the king ; we only place 
ourselves in his way, when he makes the first un- 
happy steps in the wrong path. 

Alva. 

Such being your sentiments, it seems vain for 
us to attempt to agree. You think meanly of the 
king, and contemptibly of his advisers, if you fan- 
cy that all is not already thought of, examined 
and weighed. I have no commission to go through 
again with every argument for and against. I de- 
mand obedience from the people : — and from you, 
the chiefs and nobles, counsel and assistance, as 
pledge of this unconditional duty. 

Egmont. 

Demand our heads, and your end is attained at 
once. Whether the neck bend to the yoke or 
bow to the axe, must be the same to a generous 
spirit. 'Tis in vain that I have spoken so much ; 
I have but stirred the air. 

Enter Ferdinand. 
Pardon me if I interrupt your discourse. Here 
is a letter — the bearer is urgent for an answer. 

Alva (to Egmont.) 
With your permission I will see what it contains. 
(Steps to one side.) 

Ferdinand ( to Egmont.) 
That is a beautiful horse that your servants 
have brought for you. 



( 116 ) 



Egmont. 

Yes, there are worse. I have already had him 
some time, and think of parting with him. If he 
pleases you, we can perhaps agree upon the terms. 

Ferdinand. 

We will see. 

(Alva makes a sign to his son, ivho retires up 
the stage.) 

Egmont. 

Farewell — Allow me to take my leave ; for 
by heaven ! I know not what more to say ! 

Alva. 

Happily chance hinders you from betraying 
your sentiments further. You expose imprudently 
the recesses of your heart, and accuse yourself 
far more severely than the malice of an enemy 
could accuse you. 

Egmont. 

Your reproach does not affect me. I know 
myself sufficiently, and know the duty I owe the 
king much better than many who, in his service, 
serve but themselves. I regret to retire from this 
discussion without seeing our differences adjusted, 
and only wish that the service of our master and 
the good of the country may soon unite us. Per- 
haps a renewed conversation, the presence of the 
other princes who are absent to-day, may, at a 
more propitious moment, do what at present ap- 
pears impossible. With this hope I take my leave. 

Alva (making a sign to Ferdinand.) 
Stop, Egmont ! — Your sword ! ( The middle 



( 117 ) 



door opens and discloses the gallery occupied by 
guards ivho stand motionless.) 

Egmont (after a short pause of astonishment.) 

This was the design ! For this you summoned 
me ! (grasping at his sword, as if to defend 
himself) Must I then resign my arms ? 

Alva. 

It is the king's command — you are my prisoner. 
( At the same time soldiers come in from both 
sides.) 

Egmont. 

The king ? — O Orange, Orange ! ( Gives up 
his sword.) Take it then ! It has been much 
oftener used to defend the king's cause, than to 
protect this breast. (Exit Egmont, followed by 
the soldiers and Ferdinand. Alva remains while 
the curtain falls.) 



ACT FIFTH. 



SCENE FIRST. 

A Street — Twilight. 

Clara, Brackenburg and Citizens. 

Brackenbtjrg. 
Dearest Clara, for heaven's sake, what are you 
going to do ? 

Clara. 

Come along, Brackenburg ! You do not know 
what men are made of ; we shall set him free be- 
yond a doubt. What can equal their love for him ? 
Each one, I will be bound, feels within himself 
the burning desire to save him, to rescue from 
danger a valuable life, and to restore freedom to 
the freest. Come ! The voice only is wanting 
to call them together. In their souls the feeling 
is still fresh of what they owe to him, and they 
know that it is his powerful arm alone that keeps 
them from destruction. For his sake and their 
own, they must stake every thing. And what do 
we stake ? At the most our life, which, if he come 
to death, is not worth the keeping. 

Brackenburg. 
Unhappy girl ! Thou dost not see the power 
that fetters us with bands of iron. 



( 119 ) 



Clara. 

It does not seem invincible to me. Let us not 
waste our time in vain words. Here come some 
honest, respectable, old citizens. Hark ye, friends, 
neighbors ! Say, how is it with Egmont ? 

Carpenter. 
What does the child want ? Keep her quiet. 

Clara. 

Come nearer, and let us speak more softly, till 
we are united and become stronger. We must 
not waste a moment. The reckless tyranny that 
dares to fetter him already draws the dagger for 
his murder. O my friends ! I grow more anx- 
ious with every moment of the advancing dark- 
ness. I fear this night. Come, let us divide — 
let us run quickly from quarter to quarter, and 
call out the citizens. Let each one seize his old 
arms. At the market place we will meet again, 
and the swollen stream will draw every one along 
with it. Already our foes see themselves sur- 
rounded and overwhelmed, and yield. How can 
a handful of slaves withstand us ? And he re- 
turns in the midst of us, sees himself at liberty, 
and can, for once, thank us — thank us, who were 
so deeply indebted to him. He sees, perhaps — 
O, of a certainty, he sees the morning's dawn 
again in the free heaven. 

Carpenter. 
What is the matter with thee, child ? 

Clara. 

Can you misunderstand me i I speak of the 
Count — of Egmont. 



( 120 ) 
Jetter. 

Name not the name ! 't is deadly. 

Clara. 

Not name his name ! How, not Egmont's 
name ! Who does not name it on every occasion ? 
Where does it not stand written ? In the stars 
have I often read it with all its characters. Not 
name it! What means this? Friends — good, 
dear neighbors, you dream : bethink yourselves. 
Nay, bend not those fixed and anxious looks on 
me ; do not cast around those timid glances. I 
only call you on to what each one of you desires. 
Is not my voice the voice of your own hearts ? 
Who, in this fearful night, before pressing his 
sleepless couch, will not throw himself upon his 
knees, and in earnest prayer intercede for him with 
Heaven? Ask one another! Let each one ask 
himself — and who will not cry with me, " Eg- 
mont's freedom or death?" 

Jetter. 

God help us ! there '11 be trouble here. 
Clara. 

Stay ! stay ! — do not hurry away at the sound 
of his name, whom you once pressed forward 
so earnestly to meet! When report announced 
him ; when the cry was, " Egmont is coming ! He 
comes from Ghent ! ?? then those thought them- 
selves happy who dwelt in the streets through 
which he was to pass. And when you heard the 
sound of his horses' feet, every one threw aside his 
work, and over your anxious faces at the windows 
there came, as ? t were, a heavenly ray from his 



( 121 ) 



countenance, a look of joy and hope. Then you 
lifted up your children at the door sills, and point- 
ed him out to them : " See ! that 's Egmont ! " 
you cried ; " the tallest yonder ! That 's he ! 
'T is from him you have better times to hope for 
than your poor fathers lived through! 55 Do not 
let your children ask you some day, " Where is 
he gone ? Where are those times that you prom- 
ised ? " — And thus we bandy words, do nothing, 
and betray him. 

Soest. 

For shame, Brackenburg ! Do n't let her go 
on thus ! Stop this mischief. 

Brackenburg. 
Dear Clara, let us go. What will your mother 
say ? Perchance 

Clara. 

Think you I am a child, or beside myself? 
What chance can there be ? There is no hope to 
draw me from this dread certainty. — (To the peo- 
ple.) You must hear me, and you will; fori 
see you are confounded and know not your own 
hearts. Cast but a single glance through the pres- 
ent danger to the past — the past of yesterday. 
Send forward your thoughts to the future. Can 
you live ? will you live, if he perish ? With his 
breath flees the last aspiration of liberty. Was 
he not every thing to you ? For whom did he 
give himself up to the most urgent dangers ? His 
wounds flowed and were healed for you alone. 
The great soul that upheld you all, a prison now 
16 



( 122 ) 



confines, and the horrors of a base murder hover 
about him. He thinks of you perhaps ; his hopes 
rest on you — he, who has been used but to grant 
favors, and to execute his own purposes. 

Carpenter. 
Come, neighbor ! 

Clara. 

I have not limbs nor strength like you ; but I 
have what all of you want, courage and contempt 
of danger. Oh that my breath could enkindle 
you ! that, pressing you to my bosom, I could 
warm and animate you ! Come ! I will go in 
the midst of you. As a defenceless banner, waving 
in the breeze, leads on a noble army of warriors, 
so shall my spirit hover like a flame about your 
heads, and love and courage shall unite the waver- 
ing and scattered people into a fearful host. 

Jetter. 

Take her away. I can't help pitying her. 

( Exeunt citizens.) 

Brackenburg. 
Clara, know you not where we are ? 

Clara. 

Where? Under the vault of heaven, which 
seemed to arch itself more gloriously when the 
noble man walked beneath it. From these 
windows did they look out, four, five heads, one 
above another. At these doors did they bow and 
scrape, the cowards ! when he looked down upon 
them. Oh how I loved them, when they honored 
him ! Had he been a tyrant, they would have 



( 123 ) 



deserted him before his fall. But they loved 
him! — Ye hands that then waved caps, can ye 
not wield a sword ? And we, Brackenburg ! — is 
it for us to blame them ? These arms, that have 
so often clung to him, what are they doing for him 
now? Cunning has done so much in the world 
— stay, you know the old castle and all its wind- 
ings. Nothing is impossible — give me a plan 
of it. 

Brackenburg. 
When we go home. 

Clara. 

Well. 

Brackenburg. 
At yonder corner I see Alva's guard. At least 
let the voice of reason reach your heart. Do you 
think me a coward ? Do you not believe that I 
could die for your sake ? Here, both of us are 
mad ; I as well as you. Do you not see that you 
seek what is impossible ? If you would but col- 
lect yourself! You are beside yourself. 

Clara. 

Beside myself! This is too much. ? T is you, 
Brackenburg, who are beside yourself. When 
you clamorously cheered the hero, called him 
friend and staff and hope, shouted vivats when he 
passed, I stood in my corner, raised the window 
half up, hid myself while I watched him, and my 
heart beat higher than all of yours. Now again 
it beats higher. You conceal yourselves, when 
there is need of you ; you deny him, and do not 
feel that you are ruined if he is lost. 



( 124 ) 



Brackenburg. 

Come home. 

Clara. 

Home ? 

Brackenburg. 
Only bethink yourself. Look about you. These 
are the streets that you were wont to walk in only 
of a Sunday ; which you passed through modestly 
to church ; where you were prudishly vexed if I 
joined you with a friendly word of greeting. You 
stand now and speak and act before the eyes of 
the whole world. Bethink yourself, love — how 
does this help us ? 

Clara. 

Home ! yes, I remember. Come, Bracken- 
burg, let us go home. Do you know where my 
home is ? (Exeunt.) 



( 125 ) 



SCENE SECOND. 
A Prison, 

Illumined by a single lamp. In the background, 
a couch. 

Egmont (alone.) 

Old friend, ever faithful sleep ! dost thou too 
desert me with the rest ? How willingly didst thou 
descend upon my head, when free, and cool my tem- 
ples as with a myrtle crown of love ! In the midst 
of arms, on the waves of life, I reposed in thy arms, 
breathing gently as a healthful child. Storms 
might whistle through the twigs and leaves, the 
top might wave, and the rustling boughs sway with 
the wind; but the heart within was unmoved. 
What agitates thee now ? what disturbs thy firm 
and constant mind ? I know — ? t is the sound of 
the murderous axe that gnaws at my roots. As 
yet I stand erect ; but an inward shudder runs 
through me. Yes, it conquers, this treacherous 
power — it undermines the firm stem ; and ere the 
bark is dry, falls thy lofty crown, cracking and 
crashing, to the ground. 

Why, thou who hast so often blown away like 
air-bubbles the weightiest cares from thy brow, why 
can'st thou not now banish the foreboding that per- 
vades thy whole being ? Since when has death be- 
come terrible to thee, thou who wert wont to consort 
with its shifting images as with the other forms of 



( 126 ) 



the inhabited earth? — No, 'tis not he, the swift 
foe — the firm breast fears not to encounter him. 
'Tis the prison, the emblem of the grave, alike 
revolting to the hero and the coward. It was al- 
ways insufferable to me to sit on cushioned seat 
among the assembled princes, and hemmed in by 
the dismal walls of a hall and oppressed by its low 
roof-beams, to listen to what was easy of decision, 
overlaid with endless speeches. As soon as pos- 
sible I hurried forth ; with deep-drawn breath 
leaped quickly on my horse, and hastened to the 
open fields, where we were at home ; where the 
dearest favors of nature exhaled from the earth, 
and, breathing through the heavens, the stars shed 
their blessings upon us ; where, like earth-born 
giants grown stronger from the touch of our mother, 
we rush up the heights ; where, in all our veins, 
we feel humanity and human passions ; where the 
young hunter's soul glows with the desire to press 
onward, to overtake, to strike down, to conquer 
and take possession ; where the soldier, with rapid 
step, claims an hereditary right to the whole world, 
and with fearful liberty, destruction in his path, 
roams, hailstorm-like, through field and forest, and 
knows no bounds placed by human hands. 

Thou art but the image — a dream of the bliss 
I so long possessed. Whither has treacherous 
fate led thee ? Does it deny thee the quick death, 
never shunned in the face of the sun, to prepare for 
thee in this loathsome mould a foretaste of the 
grave ? How offensive is its smell from these damp 
stones ! Already life is waning, and my foot 
shuns the couch, as it would the grave. 



( m ) 



Oh this apprehension ! would it could cease ! 
it begins my execution before its time. When 
was Egmont alone, so utterly alone in the world ? 
It is doubt makes thee insensible, not happiness. 
The justice of the king, which through life thou 
hast trusted in ; the Regent's friendship, that may 
be confessed to have been almost love- — have 
these all vanished at once, like a gleaming meteor 
of the night, and left thee behind alone in thy 
dark path ? Will not Orange dare something at 
the head of thy friends ? Will not the people as- 
semble, and with a force increasing as it advan- 
ces, come to the rescue of their old friend ? 

Ye walls that shut me in, keep not from me the 
kind zeal of so many souls ! and whatever courage 
my presence may once have infused into them, 
oh may it now return again from their hearts into 
mine ! Yes, they rush on by thousands ! they 
come — they stand at my side ! Their pious 
wish flies urgently to Heaven — it prays for a 
miracle. And if an angel do not descend to my 
rescue, I see them snatch at sword and lance. 
The doors spring open — the bars are severed — 
the walls fall before their hands — and Egmont 
steps joyfully forward to meet the freedom of the 
coming day ! How many well-known faces re- 
ceive me with acclamations ! O Clara ! wert 
thou a man, 1 should see thee here the first, and 
thank thee for what it is hard to thank a king for 
— liberty. 



( 128 ) 



SCENE THIRD. 

Clara's House. 

(Enter Clara with a lamp and a glass of water 
from her chamber. She places the glass upon 
the table and goes to the windoiv.) 

Clara. 

Brackenburg ! is it you? What did I hear? 
no one yet ? 'T was nobody. I will put the lamp 
in the window, and let him see that I am still 
awake and waiting for him. He has promised me 
tidings. Tidings ? awful certainty ! Egmont 
sentenced ! — What court is competent to try 
him ? and they condemn him ! Does the king 
condemn him or the duke ? The Regent has 
withdrawn herself! Orange hesitates, and so do 
all his friends ! Is this the world of whose in- 
constancy and want of faith I have heard so much, 
and as yet had no experience ? Is this the world ? 
Who could be base enough to bear ill-will against 
the dear man ? Could villany be powerful enough 
to ruin one so well known ? Yet it is so — it is. 
O Egmont, I thought thee safe before God and 
man as in my arms ! What was I to thee ? Thou 
hast called me thine, and my whole life I have 
devoted to thee. What am I now ? In vain I 
stretch forth my hand to the net that confines thee. 
— Thou helpless, and I free ! Here is the key to 
my door. My going and coming depend on my 



( 129 ) 



will alone — and I can do nothing for thee ! Oh 
bind me, that I may not go mad with despair; 
throw me into the deepest dungeon, that I may- 
beat rny head against the damp walls, weep to be 
set free, and dream how I would rescue him if 
fetters did not hold me. Now I am free ! and 
in freedom lies the anguish of impotency. My 
own mistress, and not capable of stirring a limb 
for his assistance ! Alas ! thy Clara too, the least 
portion of thyself, is a prisoner as well as thou, 
and separated from thee, consumes her last feeble 
powers in the spasms of death. Hark ! I hear 
some one stealing in — a cough — Brackenburg! 
— 'tis he. Miserable, kind-hearted man, thy 
fate remains ever the same. Thy love opens the 
door to thee, and ah ! to what a hapless meeting ! 
(Enter Brackenburg.) How pale and frighten- 
ed you look, Brackenburg! What's the matter? 

Brackenburg. 
I have sought you out by by-paths and through 
dangers. The main streets are guarded, and 
through lanes and dark passages, only, was I able 
to steal to you. 

Clara. 

Tell me all that has happened, 

Brackenburg ( sitting down.) 
O Clara, let me weep — I did not love him. 
He was the rich man, who lured the poor man's 
only sheep to better pastures. I have never cursed 
him. ^ God has created me true-hearted and weak. 
My life has melted away from me in grief, and 
every day I hoped would be my last. 
17 



( 130 ) 



Clara. 

Forget that, Brackenbnrg. Forget thyself. 
Speak to me of him. Is it true ? is he con- 
demned ? 

Brackenburg. 
He is ! I know it for a certainty. 

Clara. 

And lives still ? 

Brackenburg. 
Yes, he still lives. 

Clara. 

How will you assure me of that ? Tyranny 
murders the God-like man in the night; his blood 
flows concealed from all eyes. The bewildered 
people lie in a troubled sleep, and dream of res- 
cue ; dream of the fulfilment of their impotent 
wishes ; while over our heads his spirit indignant- 
ly quits the world. He is gone ! Deceive me 
not — deceive not yourself. 

Brackenburg. 
No, most certainly he lives. And it grieves 
me that the Spaniards are preparing for the peo- 
ple they would destroy a fearful spectacle, in or- 
der with force to crush every heart that aspires 
to be free. 

Clara. 

Go on, and pronounce calmly my sentence of 
death too. Already I approach nearer and nearer 
to the blessed land ; already consolation breathes 
to me from those regions of peace. Say on. 



( 131 ) 



Brackenbttrg. 
I discovered by the guards, and by words drop- 
ped here and there, that they were preparing se- 
cretly some terrible spectacle in the market-place. 
I skulked along by-lanes and familiar passages to 
my cousin's house, and looked from a back win- 
dow on the place. — There was a large circle of 
Spanish soldiers, and torches were waving to and 
fro. I rubbed my eyes that were not yet used to 
the darkness, and out of the night there arose be- 
fore me a huge, black scaffold! I shuddered at 
the sight. There were many persons busy about 
it, covering with black cloth whatever of wood was 
yet visible. The steps were covered last with 
black also ; I saw it distinctly. They seemed to 
be preparing to celebrate a frightful sacrifice. A 
white crucifix, that shone like silver through the 
darkness, was placed high on one side. While I 
gazed, the terrible certainty became every moment 
more certain. Then the torches began to flicker, 
and one by one, wavered and went out. At once 
the hideous birth of night returned into the bosom 
of its mother. 

Clara. 

Hush, Brackenburg! Now be silent. Let 
this veil rest upon my soul. The spectres are 
vanished; and thou, gentle night, lay thy mantle 
upon the earth which is fermenting within itself. 
She bears no longer the loathsome burden — with 
a shudder she yawns open in deep chasms, and 
swallows down the murderous scaffold. The God 
whom they have profaned, by making him a wit- 
ness to their fury, sends an angel from on high; 



( 132 ) 



bolts and bars fly asunder at the holy touch of 
the messenger, and he surrounds our friend with 
a pale light ; he leads him gently through the night 
to freedom. My path lies too, in secret, through 
this darkness to meet him. 

Brackenburg (detaining her.) 
My dear child, where are you going? What 
would you attempt ? 

Clara. 

Softly, dear Brackenburg, lest some one wake, 
lest we wake ourselves. Do you know this phial? 
I took it from you in jest, when you were impa- 
tiently threatening a hasty death. And now, my 
friend 

Brackenburg. 
In the name of all the saints ! 

Clara. 

You cannot prevent me. Death is my portion ; 
you will not grudge me the quick and easy death 
that you prepared for yourself. Give me your 
hand. At the moment when I open the dark gate 
through which there is no return, I can say to you, 
with this pressure of the hand, how much I have 
loved you, how much I have pitied you. My 
brother died young ; I chose you to fill his place. 
This your heart opposed, and caused pain to your- 
self and me, by demanding more and more warm- 
ly what was not destined for you. Forgive me, 
and farewell ! Let me call you brother. It is a 
name that embraces many names. Receive the 
last token of your departing friend with a true 



( 133 ) 



heart — take this kiss. Death unites all, Brack- 
enburg, and us too. 

Brackenburg. 
Then let me die with you ! Share it ! Share 
it ! 't is enough to destroy two lives. 

Clara. 

No, stay. You should live — you can live. 
Stay by my mother, who, without you, would pine 
away in want. Be to her what I can no longer 
be ; live together, and weep for me. Weep for 
our country, and him who alone could save 
it. The present generation will not forget 
this grief; the fury of vengeance itself will not 
suffice to extinguish it. Live on, poor souls ! live 
out the time that is no longer time. To-day the 
world of a sudden stands still ; its course is stop- 
ped ; and my pulse beats but a few moments lon- 
ger. Farewell ! 

Brackenburg. 
O live with us ! we live for thee alone. Thou 
wilt kill us with thyself. O live and suffer ! 
We will stand inseparably at thy side, and love, 
ever watchful, shall prepare for thee the sweetest 
consolation in its living arms. Be ours ! ours ! I 
dare not say mine, 

Clara. 

Softly, Brackenburg. You know not w T hat feel- 
ings you excite. Where you see hope, is for me 
despair. 

Brackenburg. 
Share the hope with the living. Tarry on the 



( 134 ) 



edge of the precipice: cast a glance below, and 
then look back on us. 

Clara. 

I have conquered — call me not again to the 
strife. 

Brackenburg. 
You are confounded ; wrapped in night, you 
seek the abyss. Every light is not yet extinguish- 
ed — there are yet many days to come. 

Clara. 

Alas ! alas ! Cruelly you tear the veil from 
before my eyes. Yes, the day will dawn. In 
vain all the clouds draw themselves together ; in 
spite of them it will dawn. Timidly the citizen 
looks out from his window. The night leaves a 
black spot behind. He looks, and the murderous 
scaffold grows fearfully with the light. With re- 
newed anguish the desecrated ima^e of Jesus 
raises its weeping eyes to the Father. The sun 
does not venture forth : it would not mark the 
hour in which he dies. Lazily the hands of the 
dial advance, and one hour strikes after another. 
Stop! stop! now is the time — the presentiment 
of this morning drives me to the grave. (She 
goes to the window, as if to look out, and drinks 
secretly.) 

Brackenburg. 

Clara! Clara! 

Clara (goes to the table and drinks water.) 

Here is the remainder. I do not urge you to 
follow me. Act as you think best — farewell! 
Put out this lamp without delay. I am going to 



( 135 ) 



lie down. Slip out softly, and close the door 
after you. Hush ! do not wake my mother. Go 

— save yourself, if you would not be taken for 
my murderer. (Exit.) 

Brackenburg (alone.) 
She leaves me for the last time as ever ! Oh ! 
could a human soul feel how it can break a heart 
that loves ! She leaves me alone to my own de- 
cision ; and death and life are alike hateful to me. 

— To die alone ! Weep, ye that love ! there is 
no harder fate than mine. She shares with me 
the deadly potion, and sends me away ; spurns 
me from her side. She draws me toward her, and 
thrusts me back into life. Oh Egmont ! what a 
glorious lot is thine ! She goes before ; the crown 
of victory from her hand is thine ; she brings the 
whole heavenly host to mee tthee ! And shall I 
follow ? again fill a lower place, and carry this in- 
extinguishable jealousy into those abodes ? Earth 
is no place longer for me, and hell and heaven prom- 
ise equal torments. Miserable wretch that I am, 
how welcome were the awful hand of annihilation ! 
(Exit. The stage remains some time unchanged. 
Music begins, betokening Clara's death ; the 
lamp that Brackenburg forgot to extinguish, 
flares up a few times, and dies out.) 



( 136 ) 



SCENE FOURTH. 
Prison. 

(Egmont discovered asleep on the couch. Enter 
servants with torches, followed by Ferdinand, 
Silva and soldiers. Egmont rises from his 
sleep.) 

Egmont. 

Who are ye, that thus unfriendly drive sleep 
from my eyelids ? What am I to understand from 
your uncertain and insolent glances? Why this 
fearful procession ? With what frightful dream 
do ye come to deceive the half-awakened soul ? 

Silva. 

The duke sends us to announce to you your 
sentence. 

Egmont. 

Do you bring the headsman, too, to execute it? 
Silva. 

Listen to it, and you will know what awaits you. 
Egmont. 

It is of a piece with all your shameful proceed- 
ings — brooded over by night, and by night exe- 
cuted. And thus will this flagrant act of injustice 
be concealed ! Come boldly forth, you that bear 
the sword beneath your cloak. Here is my head, 
the freest that ever tyranny severed from body. 



( 137 ) 



SlLVA. 

You are in error. What upright judges decide 
on, they will not conceal from the face of day. 

Egmont. 

Then their audacity exceeds all thought and 
imagination. 

Silva (takes from one standing near him the sen- 
tence, and reads.) 
" In the name of the king, and by power of a 
commission from his majesty, giving us jurisdiction 
over all his subjects of whatever rank they may be, 
including the knights of the Golden Fleece, we 
declare " 

Egmont (interrupting.) 
Can the king give such a commission ? 

Silva. 

"After strict examination according to law, we 
declare you, Henry Count Egmont, Prince of 
Gaure, guilty of high treason. And this is your 
sentence : that you be led out at early dawn from 
the prison to the market-place, and that there, in 
sight of the people, and as a warning to all trai- 
tors, your head be severed from your body. Giv- 
en at Brussels. 

Ferdinand, Duke of Alva, 
President of the Council of Twelve" 

You now know your fate. There remains to 
you only a short time to prepare your mind for it, 
to arrange your affairs, and take leave of your 
friends. (Exit Silva with followers. Ferdi- 
18 



( 138 ) 



nand remains : the stage is only partially illumin- 
ated.) 

Egmont, (buried in thought, remains standing 
without turning round at SUva's departure. 
Thiyiking himself alone, turns and sees Ferdi- 
nand.) 

Do you still remain ? Would you increase my 
amazement, my horror, yet more by your pres- 
ence ? Do you think, perhaps, to carry to your 
father the welcome tidings that I am overcome by 
womanish despair ? Go ! Say to him that he 
neither deceives me nor the world. They will 
first whisper it behind his back, then speak louder 
and louder, and when he descends from his emi- 
nence, a thousand voices will cry : It is not for 
the good of the state, nor the honor of the king, 
nor the peace of the provinces, that he came here. 
For his own sake has he counselled war, that the 
soldier may profit by it. He has excited these 
endless disturbances, that his presence might be 
necessary. — And / fall a sacrifice to his base mal- 
ice, his contemptible jealousy. Yes I know it, 
and I may say it — my words are the words of a 
mortally wounded, a dying man — the proud man 
has envied me, and has long brooded over my 
destruction. 

Even when in our youth w T e played at dice, 
and the piles of gold one after another came quick- 
ly over from his side to mine, he would look grimly 
on and feign calmness, while he was inwardly burn- 
ing with rage, not so much at his own loss as my 
gain. I remember now the glance of fire, the 
treacherous paleness, when at a public festival we 



( 139 ) 



shot for a wager before many thousand spectators. 
He challenged me to the trial, and both nations 
were there ; Spaniards and Netherlanders laid 
wagers, and gave their good wishes. I was the 
conqueror — his ball went wide : mine hit. A 
loud cry of joy from my friends rose in the air. 
Now his shot hits me. Tell him I know this ; 
that I know him ; that the world despises every 
trophy that a petty spirit meanly raises to itself. 
And you, if it be possible for a son to swerve from 
the path of his father, make use betimes of the 
shame that you feel for him, whom you would fain 
reverence from the bottom of your heart. 

Ferdinand. 
I listen to you without interrupting you. Your 
reproaches fall like blows of a club upon a helmet; 
I feel the shock, but am armed. You hit me, but 
do not wound : I feel only the grief that lacerates 
my breast. Alas ! alas ! that I should be re- 
served for such a scene, should be sent to such a 
spectacle ! 

Egmont. 

Do you break out into lamentations ? What moves 
you ? What grieves you ? Is it a tardy remorse, 
that you have lent your services to this shameful 
conspiracy ? You are so young, your countenance 
is so frank — you were so confiding, so friendly to- 
wards me ! While I looked on you, I was reconciled 
with your father. And yet, crafty as he, ay more 
crafty, you lured me into the net ! You are the dan- 
gerous one. Whoso trusts him, does it at his own 
peril : but who could suspect danger in trusting 



( 140 ) 



you ? — Go, go ! Rob me not of the few mo- 
ments that are left me. Go, that I may prepare 
myself; may forget the world, and first of all, you. 

Ferdinand. 
What can I say ? I stand here and look at you, 
yet see you not ; feel not my own existence. Shall 
I excuse myself? Shall I assure you that only 
lately, only at the very last moment, I became 
acquainted with my father's purpose ; that I acted 
as the slavish, the lifeless tool of his will ? — But 
what matters the opinion that you have of me ? 
You are lost ; and I, wretch that I am, am here 
only to assure you of it, and to weep for you. 

Egmont. 

What strange voice, what unexpected consola- 
tion meets me on my way to the grave? You, 
the son of my first, of almost my only enemy, 
you pity me, not among my murderers ! Speak — 
say, for whom shall I take you ? 

Ferdinand. 
Cruel father! Yes, I recognize you in this 
command. You knew my heart, you knew the 
disposition that you so often reproached me with, 
as the inheritance of a tender-hearted mother. To 
make me like yourself, you sent rne hither. You 
compel me to look on this man at the verge of the 
yawning grave, in the power of a remorseless 
death, that I may feel the deepest grief ; that I 
may be proof against all fate, and banish every 
trace of feeling from my heart, whatever event may 
befal me. 



( 141 ) 



Egmont. 

lam astonished. Calm yourself! act like a 
man. 

Ferdinand. 
Oh that I were a woman ! then one might say 
to me, what moves you ? what is the cause of your 
grief? Tell me of a greater ill ; make me witness 
to a more fearful deed, and I will thank you and 
say this is nothing. 

Egmont. 

You are losing your senses — what mean you ? 

Ferdinand. 
Let this passion rave on, let me vent my com- 
plaints without restraint. I will not seem firm 
when every thing is breaking within me. Must 
I see thee here ? thee 1 ? T is too horrible. You 
do not understand me, and how can you ? Eg- 
mont ! Egmont ! (Falls on his neck.) 

Egmont. 
Disclose to me the secret. 

Ferdinand. 
There is no secret. 

Egmont. 

How is it that the fate of a stranger affects you 
so deeply ? 

Ferdinand. 
~ No, not a stranger. You are no stranger to 
me. J Twas your name that, in early youth, was 
a light in my path, like a star in heaven. How 
often have I inquired concerning you, and listened 
to your fame ! The hope of the child is the 



( 142 ) 



youth, of the youth, the man. Thus have you 
ever walked before me — always before, and yet 
I saw you there without envy, and ever followed 
you. I hoped at length to see you, and did see 
you, and my heart flew to meet you. I had cho- 
sen you for myself, and when I saw you I chose 
you anew. I hoped now to be with you, to live 

with you, to embrace you, to • Now this is 

all lost, and I see you here ! 

Egmont. 

My friend, if it can be a pleasure to you, be as- 
sured that, from the first moment, my heart yearn- 
ed toward you. Now listen to me. Let us ex- 
change a calm word one with another. Tell me, 
is it the fixed, the serious determination of your 
father to take my life ? 

Ferdinand. 

It is. 

Egmont. 

This sentence is not an unmeaning image of 
terror to torture me, to punish me with intimida- 
tion and threats, to humiliate me, and then with 
royal mercy, to lift me up again ? 

Ferdinand. . 
No, alas ! no ! In the beginning I flattered my- 
self with this deceitful hope; and even then, I felt 
grief and anguish at seeing you in this situation. 
Now it is real, 'tis certain ! No, I cannot com- 
mand myself. Who will give me aid and counsel 
to meet the inevitable ? 

Egmont. 

listen to me. If your heart urge you so pow- 



( 143 ) 



erfully to be my deliverer, if you revolt at this 
usurpation of power that holds me in fetters, oh 
save me ! The moments are precious. You are 
the son of the all-powerful — in power yourself. 
Let us fly. I know the way ; the means cannot 
be unknown to you. Only these walls, only a 
few miles separate me from my friends. Loose 
these fetters, lead me to them, and be ours. The 
king will thank you for my delivery, do not doubt 
it. At present he is taken by surprise ; and, per- 
haps, all is unknown to him. Your father takes 
this daring step, and royalty, though horror-struck, 
must approve what is done. You pause ? Oh 
find out for me the way to freedom ! Speak, and 
nourish the hope of a living soul. 

Ferdinand. 
Cease, oh cease ! With every word you in- 
crease my despair. There is no escape here, no 
counsel, no flight. It is this that torments me, 
that seizes on and fastens into my bosom as with 
talons. I have myself drawn the net ; I know its 
hard, firm knots ; I know that there is no chance 
for boldness or cunning. I feel that I am fettered 
as well as yourself and all others. Should I la- 
ment if I had not tried every means ? I have lain 
at his feet ; I have entreated, I have prayed. He 
sent me here in order to destoy at once all of joy 
and happiness that remained to me. 

Egmont. 
And is there no deliverance ? 

Ferdinand. 

None. 



( 144 ) 



Egmont (stamping with his foot.) 
No deliverance ! Sweet life ! kind, pleas- 
ing habit of existence and action! must I part 
from thee ? part so calmly ? Not in the tumult 
of battle, amid the clash of arms, in the excitement 
of the melee, dost thou take a hasty farewell : thou 
takest no hurried leave, thou shortenest not the 
moment of separation. I will clasp thy hand, look 
in thine eyes yet once more, feel keenly thy beau- 
ty and thy worth, and then tear myself with reso- 
lution away, and say, depart ! 

Ferdinand. 
And shall I stand by and look on, not able to 
stop you, to save you? Oh, what voice is suffi- 
cient for lamentation ! what heart would not over- 
flow with such grief! 

Egmont. 

Calm yourself. 

Ferdinand. 
You can be calm : you can renounce life, 
and in the hand of necessity, heroically take this 
difficult step. What shall J do? what can I do ? 
You conquer yourself and us ; you gain the vic- 
tory — I outlive you and myself. At the ban- 
quet I have lost my light, in the battle I have lost 
my banner. My future is confused, dark and 
desolate. 

Egmont. 

My young friend — whom, by a strange fatality, 
I gain and lose at the same moment, who suffer 
for my sake, for my sake feel the pangs of death 
— look at me ; you do not lose me. If my life 



( 145 ) 



was a mirror in which you beheld yourself with 
pleasure, let my death be the same to you. Men 
are not together only when they are near to one 
another ; the distant too, the departed live for us. 
I live for you ; I have lived sufficiently for my- 
self. I have enjoyed every day ; I have every day 
done my duty, readily and efficiently, as my con- 
science prompted me. Now my life ends, as it 
might have ended, long ere this, on the sands of 
Gravelines. I cease to live, but I have lived. Do 
thou live thus my friend, cheerfully and with thy 
whole soul, and shun not Death when he ap- 
proaches. 

Ferdinand. 
You could have preserved yourself for us ; you 
should have done so. You have killed yourself. 
I have often listened when shrewd men spoke 
of you ; hostile and friendly, they disputed long 
about your worth ; but all agreed, without a dis- 
senting voice, that you were going a dangerous 
path. How often did I wish to be able to warn 
you ! Had you then no friends ? 

Egmont. 

1 had warning. 

Ferdinand. 
And then when, one by one, I saw all these 
charges again in the accusation, and your answers 
— good enough to palliate your conduct ; not pow- 
erful enough to clear you of blame 

Egmont. 

Enough of this. Man thinks his life subject to 
his own guidance and control, whilst his innermost 
19 



( 146 ) 



being is urged on irresistibly to its destiny. Let 
us not dwell on this — of these thoughts I can easi- 
ly free myself. It is more difficult to get rid of 
apprehensions for my country ; yet that also will 
be cared for. If my blood can benefit the world, 
and bring peace to my people, it shall flow most 
willingly. Alas! that cannot be. Yet it becomes 
not a man to dwell in thought on matters in which 
he can no longer be of service. If you can re- 
strain or direct your father's destroying power, do 
so. But who can ? — Farewell. 

Ferdinand. 

I cannot go. 

Egmont. 

Let me recommend my people most strongly to 
you. I have worthy men among my servants : 
let them not be scattered, let them not be unhap- 
py ! How is it with Richard, my secretary ? 

Ferdinand. 
He is gone before you. They have beheaded 
him as an accomplice in high treason. 

Egmont. 

Poor fellow ! Yet one thing more, and then 

farewell — lean no more. However powerfully 
the soul may be affected, Nature asserts irresisti- 
bly her rights at last, and as a child in the em- 
brace of a serpent enjoys refreshing slumber, so 
the weary pilgrim lays himself down once more 
before the gate of death, and sleeps deeply, as if 
he had a long journey before him. One thing 
more — I know a maiden ; you will not despise 



( 147 ) 



her, because she was mine. I commend her to 
your charge — and now I die in peace. You are 
a noble man ; a woman that finds such a one is 
saved. Does my old Adolph live ? is he at large ? 

Ferdinand. 
The active old man, who always accompanied 
you on horseback ? 

Egmont. 

The same. 

Ferdinand. 
He lives, and is free. 

Egmont. 

He knows her dwelling. Let him conduct you 
thither, and reward him to the end of his life for 
showing you the way to this jewel — Farewell. 

Ferdinand. 

I will not go. 

Egmont (urging him towards the door.) 
Adieu. 

Ferdinand. 
Oh grant me but a short while ! 

Egmont. 

My friend, no leave-taking. ( He accompanies 
Ferdinand to the door, and tears himself from 
him. Ferdinand, stwpified with grief hurries 
away.) 

Egmont ( alone.) 
Barbarous man ! thou little thought'st to render 
me this service through thy son. By his means I 
am rid of care and grief, of fear and every anxious 



( 148 ) 



feeling. Mild, yet urgent, Nature demands her 
last tribute. 'Tis past, 'tis decided! and what 
last night kept me watchful on my couch, while in 
suspense, now with unyielding certainty shuts my 
senses in sleep. ( He lies doivn — Music.) Sweet 
sleep ! thou comest like good fortune, unbid- 
den, unentreated. Thou loosest the knots of stern 
thought, and minglest together all images of joy 
and grief. Unhindered, the circle of internal har- 
monies flows on, and wrapped in a pleasing fren- 
zy, we sink down and cease to be. 

(He sleeps. Music accompanies his slumber. 
Behind the couch the wall seems to open, and 
discovers a glittering apparition. Liberty in 
a celestial garb, surrounded by a halo, reposes on 
a cloud. She has the features of Clara, and in- 
clines herself toward the sleeping hero. Her 
face expresses compassion, and she seems to mourn 
for him. Presently she collects herself, and, shows 
him the bundle of arrows, with the staff and hat.* 
She bids him be of good cheer, and thus signify- 
ing to him that his death will give freedom to the 
provinces, acknowledges him as conqueror, and ex- 
tends to him a crown of laurel. Martial music, 
with drums and fifes, is heard at a distance ; and 
at the first sound, the apparition disappears. The 
noise increases — Egmont wakes — the prison is 
partially lighted by the dawn — he stands up and 
looks around.) 

The crown is vanished ! Thou beautiful im- 
age, the light of day has frightened thee away. 



* Badges of the confederates. — TV. 



( 149 ) 



Yes, in thee were united the sweetest joys of my 
heart. Divine Liberty took the shape of my be- 
loved one ; the charming maiden clad herself in 
the celestial robes of her friend. At a sad mo- 
ment they appear united. With blood-stained 
feet she came before me, the waving folds too of 
her robe tinged with blood. It was my blood, and 
the blood of many noble hearts. It was not shed 
in vain. Go on, brave people ! The goddess 
of Victory leads you on. And as the sea breaks 
through your dikes, so break through and destroy 
the wall of tyranny, and wash it away from the 
ground that it has usurped. 

(Drums approach nearer.) 
Hark ! Hark ! How often has this sound call- 
ed me to the free march, to the field of battle and 
of victory ! How gaily did my companions tread 
the dangerous path of fame ! I too walk forth 
from this prison to meet an honorable death ; I 
die for liberty, for which I lived and fought, and 
for which I now, with grief, offer myself a sacri- 
fice. 

(The background is occupied by a line of Span- 
ish halberdiers.) 
Ay, bring up your men ! Close your ranks, ye 
do not terrify me. I am accustomed to stand be- 
fore spears and against them ; and surrounded by 
threatening death, to feel only with double quick- 
ness the spirit of life. 

(Drums.) 

The foe hems thee in on all sides. His swords 
are flashing. — Friends, courage ! Ye have pa- 
rents, wives, children at your backs. 



in 



1% 



( 150 ) ^ ^ 

(Pointing to the guards.) 
And these are led on by the mere word of their 
master, not their own feelings. Protect your prop- 
erty — and to preserve what is dearest to you, fall 
joyfully, as I give you the example. 

(Drums — As he rushes through the guards 
to the door, the curtain falls, and the orchestra 
closes the tragedy with a martial symphony.) 



ERRATA. 



Page 18, last line,/o?- infidel zeal read incredible rapidity. 

Page 66, line 4, for ? read . — 

Page 140, line 18, insert you before not. 

Page 142, last line but two, /or meet read shun. 



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